


Soldiering On Through Friendly Fire

by Schmiezi



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Friendship, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Pre-Slash, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-23
Updated: 2013-04-02
Packaged: 2017-12-06 05:20:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 30,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/731882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Schmiezi/pseuds/Schmiezi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A shadow from Sherlock's past forces the boys to reunite after the fall.<br/>Set directly after Reichenbach. John is not as unknowing as Mycroft thought, and not as easy to break as Moran thought. Sherlock might not be as unaffected by this caring thing as he thought himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. After The Fall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock. I don't make any money with it and don't intend to do so in the future.

He was pushed into the hospital soon afterwards, gently but determinedly. Didn't know by whom, avoided looking into their faces. Eyes down, John willingly stumbled along, his head still drumming from his fall. Then sitting on a bed, ignoring the people around him, eyes down, down. Looking at the tiles. Images of blood and empty eyes and drenched curls in his head. He forced himself to keep these images vivid in his mind, seeing them again and again.

Someone checked his vitals, someone wrapped him in a blanket, as if that would help. He heard murmured words, but didn't listen to any of them, didn't look at any of them. Time went by, minutes or hours, stretching endlessly, with meaningless people and meaningless actions. Someone checked his pupils for signs of a concussion: reasonable, but meaningless as well. The floor tiles were old and worn, greyish with a stain of green, bleached. John doubted he could ever forget those tiles.

Only when someone reached for a syringe did he show a flicker of life. “No tranquilliser”, he begged, with a slight amount of panic in his voice. He looked up for the first time since entering the hospital, directly into the face of a young doctor. “No tranquilliser, please, I...” He collected himself with force. “I don´t want to stop feeling the... I...” He stopped, just looking at her. “Please don´t,” he finally whispered. She nodded and left him alone. Eyes down again. Grey tiles. Blood and eyes and curls...

Time passed. The door was opened again. Lestrade, pale, shaken. Not as pale as... Was he blaming himself? John looked away again. While he was listening to the D.I.´s murmurs half-heartedly, things to say sprung to his mind, like “It wasn’t your fault” and “It was all your fault” and “Leave me alone”. But John only looked to the ground, and thought of blood and curls, and after a while, Lestrade left.

Time continued to pass, the staring went on. The joints between the tiles were black, but frayed. The world left John alone for a while. After another eternity, the door was opened once more. Molly. Shaken and sad, eyes red and swollen. Again, he looked away after a fraction of a second, realizing that he was simply not able to stand looking at her. 

“I'm sorry,” she stated, voice weak from a trembling body. John stared at the ground. The tiles were bleached, but clean. She sat down next to him, wrapping her arm around his shoulder, leaning against him so hard he could feel her shaking. The staring continued for a while. 

“Do you want to see him?” she asked then, so softly that John barely heard her. He nodded in silence and left the sanctuary of the hospital room for good.

***

Being at the morgue without an endlessly talking Sherlock by his side felt wrong, as if he did not have any right to be here on his own. Molly guided him to one of the tables, constantly touching his arm or his back or his hand, a hopeless attempt to offer solace where none should be possible. Or was she seeking for it? Anyway, John couldn’t bring himself to respond to it.

The tiles had changed during their journey through the corridors, becoming newer, whiter. At one point his steps had been so reluctant that Molly literally had to pull him along. At least she didn't talk to him. When they stopped in front of one of the tables, John knew that there was no way to avoid it any longer. It needed to be done. He gathered all the strength he had – was he supposed to have any, under these conditions? But then, he was a soldier, wasn't he? That´s what he had learned to do – keep soldiering on, no matter what.

He took in a deep breath, and finally looked up. 

So peaceful, was the first thought that crossed his mind. It seemed like someone had washed the hair, arranged the curls to frame the face, cleaned the face, closed the eyes. Covered the naked body with a white blanket. So peaceful. John´s mind was almost empty now, and he had no idea how long he simply stared at the... the body. Because that was what he should consider it to be, he told himself. A body. No matter what. A body.

He knew he couldn't cry. So he kept biting his lip, taking slow breaths through his nose, not taking his eyes from Sherlock for a second. From the body. Could Molly hear how unsteady his breathing was? The peaceful appearance could not overlay the dead eyes and bloodied curls inside his mind. Nothing could. Nothing should.

His back was turned to the door, but when it was opened, he felt no need to turn around to see who was entering this cold and gruesome place. He heard soft, but steady steps, punctuated by the clicking of metal on tiles. Was it accidental that Mycroft was showing up right now? Well, it was hard to imagine Mycroft doing anything accidental. Wasn't it? 

You need to do it, a little voice inside him said, you need to do it now. And then you need to get the hell out of here, and never come back. So he did it, he soldiered on. Stretched out his hand, touching the body gently, first its chest, then its cheeks. Jesus, the skin was cold, so cold... Then the curls. His hand rested there, his fingers taking in the softness of the hair, his lip hurting from having being bitten on. He needed to say something. Needed to speak. Needed to say something. 

“I...” he started, and stopped almost instantly. Oh God, this was terrible. His heart started to beat violently all of sudden, his breathing became hollow, which made his voice sound even more broken than he thought was possible, when he pressed out “I'm so sorry. I.. I should have...I...” The sentence hung in mid-air, never to be finished. Instead, John shook his head slowly, withdrew his hand from...the body and turned around sharply. 

Mycroft was standing so close that he almost bumped into him. John gave him the coldest stare he could muster. “Don´t you dare to talk to me. Ever.” And without waiting for the inevitable reply, John left.

The cab took its time to reach Baker Street, the traffic being rather heavy (what time was it, anyway?), and John kept thinking about eyes and blood and curls. Not the peaceful, easy version from the morgue, the cruel one from the pavement. Again and again, it went around inside his head. When he realized that this image no longer hurt him that much because he had gone numb inside, he thought about the note. About Sherlock crying, about himself, obviously unable to stop the inevitable. About an outstretched hand from the roof. Sherlock crying.

He himself couldn't cry. Should he have cried? He couldn't. He had never cried, though, not when his mother had died of cancer, not when his father had drunken himself to death in the aftermath of this, not in Kunduz. Not even after Kunduz. 

Standing in front of the green door, he knew that the hardest part was yet to come. He needed to tell her. He needed to break her heart. He felt the irrational wish to stay right here for ever. If he simply didn't go inside, it would never happen... Again, in the end, he soldiered on. Knocked at Mrs. Hudson´s door, steeling himself for the task at hand. 

When did he become so tired, anyway? He felt barely able to keep his eyes open. His whole body screamed for sleep, for forgetting everything, for a short moment of oblivion. But there would be no sleep, he knew. Not now, not today. Not enough sleep for a very long time. It was incredible how mundane your thoughts can turn out to be in the middle of a disaster.

He had had no idea how to tell Mrs. Hudson, but it turned out to be unnecessary to say something anyway. She opened the door, looked at John, and her face fell almost instantly. Later he was holding her, comforting her, only that there was no comfort, letting her cry until her voice was harsh and her eyes fell dry. 

Then he softly told her about the roof and the so-called note and how he had been completely unable to stop him and how he should have been able to stop him and how he does not know just how much time had passed since then and how he does not know how to carry on now. And then she was holding him, talking to him, while he nearly drifted away to a state of semi-sleep, just lying in her arms for a while, just drifting. 

And then he was in the apartment, all alone. He'd realized his shoes were covered with blood, his socks were drenched as well, and had taken them off, and was sitting in his armchair, barefoot, staring into the lonely nothingness around him. It was so tempting, just to fall asleep now, but he couldn't. There was one more thing he needed to do, one little action that would be waited for impatiently if it was not done now.

He heaved himself out of the armchair and dragged himself into the bathroom – the only truly surveillance-free room in the apartment. He opened the tap and let the water run down the sink, just to make sure none of the many bugs from 221b would catch any noise from inside the room. Then he sat down, leaning against the bathtub, and took out his mobile. Not his regular one, the new one, with the prepaid card and the faked list of contacts and the faked texts on it, placed there just in case someone else would get hold of it. Which really, really should not happen.

“Back home again, still alive.” he typed, and then added, “Plan working so far. Be careful!” Then he picked one special contact from the list, the only one actually connected to an existing mobile number, but covering its owner with the fake name of Mary Morstan. 

Pressing send, he briefly wondered if he should have encoded the message, but then they had agreed not to, at least not the first one. At this very moment, the other mobile was still lying in a safe deposit box somewhere in Berne, and this message should be deleted as soon as possible after being read. For the first time since the whole insanity had started, John felt some of the tension slipping from his shoulders. He was still alive. No assassin had shot him so far. That was good. 

He had fooled the enemy. Now he must find out if he had also been able to fool the friends. 

He slowly returned to the armchair, allowing himself to feel the tiredness that was tugging at his body, knowing being tired would make him look worn and miserable, eyes again on the ground. Too many cameras in this flat to be himself anywhere but inside the bathroom. This was going to be a long, long summer.

***

Again, time passed and John stared on. He knew there was no way Mycroft would fail to turn up at 221b today. To look after John, the way his dead brother would have wanted him to. To seek forgiveness for betraying Sherlock by providing Moriarty with so many details from Sherlock’s life. Or so he would pretend. 

His real mission would obviously be to find out if John really believed in Sherlock´s death, and if John really believed that Mycroft was involved in it. So all John had to do now was play out a double bluff on the British government. Jesus, he thought, next time I'm going to be the one to jump off a building, and you can do all the save-the-day-by-lying-to-everyone-stuff.

Mycroft took his time to arrive, probably busy helping to get Sherlock out of the country one way or the other. When he finally showed up, all serious and subtly grieving, John had been awake for nearly 48 hours, not counting the little naps he had taken at the laboratory, and he really didn't need brilliant acting skills to appear broken. He was still wearing the same clothes he had on when Sherlock had jumped, still neither shoes nor socks, hadn't washed or shaved, had done nothing other than sitting in his chair, staring at the carpet.

When the door opened and Mycroft came in, he barely looked up. Clenched his fists, though. (Mycroft was to notice the little things, and John was supposed to be angry at Mycroft. That was the whole point of Mycroft telling him about how he “accidentally betrayed” Sherlock, after all.) So he dutifully clenched his fists and his jaw and waited for his prompt. 

“John...” Mycroft started, and John spontaneously decided that this was all the prompting he needed. He exploded out of the chair and planted himself in front of the tall man, staring at him with as much hatred as he could muster. “How dare you come here?”, he shouted, “How do you dare? It's your fault he´s dead, and you know it. You failed to protect him. You helped Moriarty to bring him down. You said you're constantly worried about him but in the end it was you who caused all this. Get away from me, Mycroft Holmes, as fast as you can. You've never been worthy of having a brother like him. He would despise you even more now than he did before. Leave. Me. Alone.”

The last sentences were yelled from the top of his lungs, and he was shaking with artificial rage. Mycroft just looked at him, nearly unimpressed, but with an ever so subtle sadness in his eyes, an ever so subtle tremble of his bottom lip. (He was cleverly acting to fool him, John realized, which meant he hadn't gotten the fact that John was only acting as well. Or was he trying to fool him into believing he was fooled? What comes after triple bluff? Quadruple bluff?)

John shook his head slightly, allowing his body to sag. “Leave me alone,” he repeated gently, more pleading now, sounding like he was too exhausted to be angry any longer. He held Mycroft's gaze for another while, then looked away, eyes down once more, wondering how broken he really appeared to be. He fell into his chair once more and didn't look up when Mycroft turned to leave. (And he didn't as much as twitch when this new mobile he kept in his trouser pocket softly vibrated to signal an incoming text.)

Of course, no Holmes could leave a room without having the last word, so John was not surprised when he heard the footsteps come to a halt. “I am aware of my guilt, John” the older man declared quietly. “However, I know that my brother...cared for you, for reasons I can fully understand, and he would expect me to make sure that his...demise would not impair your current lifestyle. Consider your financial interests to be taken care of, John, whether you like it or not. I know that there is nothing more you would allow me to do for you at this point.”

John, (who had slightly theatrically closed his eyes at “demise” and opened them again in disbelief at “financial interest”) didn't bother to respond to this, and so Mycroft finally left. Aware of all the cameras, most of them installed by Mycroft, some surely by Moriarty, a few probably by yet unknown opponents, John staggered once more to the relative sanctuary of the bathroom to look at the text he had just received from Mary Morstan.

“Brilliant performance,” it read, “keep mourning for the two deceased. Dasvidanya!”

Sherlock was heading from Switzerland to Russia, to start tearing down Moriarty´s net. And Moriarty was dead, but John still needed to appear mourning. He resisted the urge to send another “Be careful!” Instead, he cleared the message, wavered back to his chair and continued to give his impression of broken, lonesome John Watson.


	2. The Game's Afoot Again!

Little sleep and even less food proved to be extremely helpful if you wanted to appear broken. But sitting in your chair while staring at the ground for hours proved to be extremely boring, and even though John was a patient person in general, it really started to get on his nerves after a while. 

At first, he was kind of glad about it, as it gave him enough time to consider his next moves. As Sherlock had anticipated, the snipers set on his friends left after a few days. But still, the world needed to believe Sherlock Holmes was dead, giving him the freedom to follow the more important of Moriarty's men as well as a few bad guys that had gotten away in the past. It was therefore necessary to remain mourning.

And so John got regular texts from “Mary”, who was obviously enjoying a trip around the world (“Why would people pay that much money to climb a tower that leans?” “Why are people proud of the fact that their dispensable village hosts the world's biggest ball of wool?”), that more often than not included a hidden plea for John to remain mourning.

The problem with considering his next moves was just that there were only so many moves to be accomplished. He would mourn for a while, and then slowly go on with his life, picking up a voluntary job at some charity medical project (no need to earn money with Mycroft keeping John's bank account even, no matter how much money he spent), starting to go out with friends again, but still feeling a certain emptiness in his life... 

Shortly after the funeral he had moved out of 221b, declaring it to be too painful to stay, in reality only trying to avoid being under constant surveillance. It had taken Mycroft two days to completely bug John's transition flat, and so, after another two weeks, he had moved back in, pleasing Mrs Hudson beyond words, continuing to be bored, but being able to sleep in his own bed again.

Thankfully, at least during summer John could switch on the TV, pretending to stare but not to watch what was going on, while in truth eagerly following the Olympic Games. He loved the Olympics in general, but never had so much time at hand to see it all. And what Games they had been for Britain. He just needed to remind himself to look sad and indifferent from time to time but really had a great time, at least for a while.

***

Still, at the end of August, all in all he had too much time at hand, and so he let his mind wander. Thinking back to the funeral, for example. Held without public announcement, without any member of the press, but with a huge amount of homeless and a very marginal number of friends and family. 

John remembered how he had secretly watched Mycroft, who believed that Molly was the only other person around who knew, and Molly, who believed the same. A chill went down his spine when he briefly wondered if there had been someone else watching him, pondering on how John believed that Molly, Mycroft and he himself were the only ones to know... This whole thing was really driving him into paranoia.

He had avoided looking at Greg, who had appeared to be as broken as John, clearly blaming himself for Sherlock´s death, had avoided looking at Mycroft to give the impression of loathing him, had definitely avoided looking at the young homeless man in worn-out jeans and a hoodie, hood drawn deep over his face. In fact, John had been very carefully not paying more attention to him than all the other attendants would. 

When it had been time to deliver his eulogy, he had basically repeated his performance from the morgue – starting to say something, then stopping in mid-sentence, unsuccessfully fighting to regain his composure, shaking his head and returning to his seat after less than a minute. Very impressive, obviously, as Mrs Hudson had started sobbing so hard at that point that it had been difficult for John to remain self-centred instead of comforting. He really didn't see how Sherlock was going to soothe her after returning to his normal life – whenever that would be.

John also occasionally thought back to this strange night about five months ago, after their return from Dartmoor. He had gone to bed early, and strangely, so had Sherlock. Eventually, about an hour after falling asleep, he had been woken by a noise coming from Sherlock's bedroom. A muffled scream of a kind John knew only too well. A nightmare. This happened only seldomly, but every time it did John shuddered when he thought about what kind of nightmares such a brilliant mind as Sherlock's must be capable of producing. 

That specific night he had pondered on checking on his friend, for this whole hound thing had clearly shaken him deeper than he had cared to admit. But before John had reached a decision, the door to his room had swung open, and Sherlock had been standing there, looking scared. “I had a nightmare,” he had declared only a little too loud, and without waiting for John's reaction had slipped into bed, pressing his belly to John's back, spooning him, leaning so close he could whisper into John's ear quietly. 

And then, after dispelling any doubts John had had about the true reason of this...arrangement (“Come ON, John, we are separated only by a thin layer of cotton and an even thinner layer of filament silk. If I were THAT happy to be here you obviously would have noticed by now.”), he had explained to his friend how he had realised the threat Moriarty had been planning on both of the Holmes boys. How he and Mycroft had both figured out that the consulting criminal would be aiming at driving Sherlock into suicide after publicly destroying him, and how they were planning to outwit him. 

And how Jim would surely use John's life to put the necessary pressure on Sherlock. How most unfortunately Mycroft had realized that Sherlock was not likely to survive the blow John's death would deal him. And how Mycroft had therefore threatened to stop helping his little brother if he would tell John about their plan to fake Sherlock's death. How Sherlock had had to wait for the bug in this room to break down, giving them one surveillance-free night to plan everything without Mycroft's knowledge, given that they would whisper low enough not to be picked up by the bug in the corridor.(The only alternative had been finding a reason to take a shower together or some other activity inside the bathroom, and John had been really happy that Sherlock decided against that.)

And so Sherlock had laid out the plan. He would accept a couple of boring but impressive cases, like this thing about that picture that had gone missing, cases the press would pick up eagerly. By that he would give the writers a chance to lift him up, so Moriarty would later have a well-founded base for making Sherlock fall from grace. 

Mycroft would release the criminal from prison soon, enabling him to make his next move. The two brothers were planning on making it look like they had drifted apart even further, so no-one would guess they were up to something together. 

Unfortunately, Sherlock had explained, that would also imply that Mycroft would contact John more often than not, in order to ask or beg or blackmail or force him to take care for Sherlock while pretending not to talk to his younger brother momentarily, warning him of the events to come. John had flinched at the idea of lying straight faced to Mycroft, but then... If he could lie to a Holmes, there was no need to worry about any threat Moriarty could make up, right?

Afterwards it had been almost impossible to discuss the whole affair again, only a few muttered sentences with their backs to the CCTV here, a hushed whisper in a very dark part of London there...It was incredible how tight Mycroft´s and Moriarty´s surveillance nets really were. So when it finally started, John had had to largely manoeuvre on instinct, but obviously, everything had worked out as well as expected.

After the catching of Peter Ricoletti John had dared to start a discussion with Sherlock in front of the cameras and bugs in their living room, pretending to want his friend to keep a lower profile, knowing full well that the increased presence in the media was exactly what Sherlock had been aiming at, but also knowing that Mycroft would sooner or later have started to wonder why John wasn't warning his friend. And so, as so often, John had bravely soldiered on: “The press will turn, Sherlock. They always turn, and they’ll turn on you.” Sherlock had chimed in without the slightest twitching of his face, and Mycroft had obviously bought it. 

Finally, after sitting and staring for another eternity, John decided that it was time to move on. In November he found a job in a charity clinic that took care of the homeless, pretended to make his peace with Greg and spent a couple of nights at the pub with him, both of them getting first drunk and then extremely sentimental, even met Molly twice, but always was sorry for how uncomfortable she felt for lying to him. He came by Mrs Hudson regularly, allowing her to shower him with all her caring energy, sharing memories of Sherlock, always feeling guilty. Lying to her was the worst part of it all. 

He always made sure to look sad on his way home (for Mycroft and his CCTV), refused to deal with attempted suicides at the clinic (because he knew he definitely wouldn't be able to do so had Sherlock really jumped to his death in front of his eyes) and spent enough time in his chair at home, doing nothing. He never touched his blog again, dutifully lied to Ella (who really was a terrible therapist, for she never realised he was lying) and gave away some of Sherlock's things, knowing only too well Mycroft would secretly acquire those that were important to his brother. 

It was a shame that John couldn't sell the violin for Christmas. He knew Sherlock must be missing it badly, but they had agreed that mourning John would not give it away too lightly. A good thing that Mrs Hudson had donated the microscope to a school while John was living at his transition flat.

One week in January John strained his ankle when he tripped over the laptop he had forgotten in front of his bed. He limped through his daily routine, wondering why everybody was THAT sympathetic for him. It took him three days to figure out that all people knowing him had naturally assumed that his psychosomatic limp had returned.

A visit from Harry in March had proved to be even more embarrassing. John had always made a huge fuss over not touching anything in Sherlock's bedroom, and so the otherwise neat room was left with an unmade bed. Searching for a book she had once given to her brother's flatmate, Harry saw the bed and was almost moved to tears. 

“Oh John, you don't have to be ashamed. I can't even recall how many nights I spent in Clara's bed after she had left me...” Afterwards John didn't know whether to laugh or to fume, but with all cameras set on him had to decide to skip the reaction at all. Still, what the hell were they all thinking?

***

Then, one rainy April night, the boring routine was broken up rather dramatically. A text from “Mary” had told John that his hunt had brought Sherlock to Madrid (“Honestly, why not just admit that it is a greenhouse? A train station is where TRAINS are.”), and John had envied his friend for being active while he himself was forced to a life of uninspired boredom. 

John had turned in not too late that night, but with the intention of getting up before dawn, still depriving himself from his usual seven hours of sleep to support his mourning appearance and had fallen into a dreamless state of unconsciousness when the vibrating alarm of his secret mobile suddenly woke him up. He was wide awake instantly. Sherlock! It was understood that he would only call in cases of extreme emergency. Whatever it was, it was not good. 

John hurried to the bathroom and barely thought about opening the tap to drown his voice before answering the call. “What happened? Are you all right?” he asked without ceremony, wilfully trying to sound not half as panicky as he felt. But when he heard Sherlock´s voice, he instantly knew he had every reason to panic. “John, I... Yes, yes, all right. Just...Hi.” 

John quickly checked the clock next to the mirror cabinet. He knew they only had a few minutes before they had to disconnect the line for safety reasons. “Sherlock,” he said, trying sound reassuring and reasonable, knowing his chance of breaking through his friend´s barriers were slim at best, “what happened?” “Um...nothing. No, nothing. I just...I've finished the job in Madrid.” 

And then John understood. “You had to kill someone,” he stated, and felt his stomach clench when Sherlock's silence confirmed his concerns. Damn. He had been afraid that this would happen, eventually. He knew that Sherlock was a very skilled fighter, but somehow, despite all of the dangerous cases he had accepted over the years, had never before been forced to take someone's life. And obviously dealing with that turned out to be very hard.

“I'm sorry,” John said plainly, and forced himself to wait for a response before going on. It seemed like an eternity before he heard Sherlock's voice again: “I had to. It was her or me, and so I stabbed her.” Incredible how lost he sounded. John closed his eyes, feeling a wave of sympathy washing over him. He clearly remembered the first time he had been forced to take someone's life, and how long he had struggled with the aftermath. No one should be alone after that.

“Damn, I wish I could be with you”, he said, knowing that it was not supposed to happen. “Me, too,” Sherlock admitted quietly. A confession of their friendship, so rare that John could count them on the fingers of just one hand. 

Damn Mycroft. John should have been there, with Sherlock, the whole time. He should have been the one to kill that person. Forcing them to separate might protect John, but it obviously didn't protect Sherlock. Had Mycroft considered that, too? John doubted it. He eyed the clock once more. Their safe time was nearly over. “Sherlock, promise me not to do anything stupid tonight, will you? Sherlock?” But the line had already been disconnected.

Damn, damn, damn. This was not good. This was really, definitely not good. John took a deep breath, steeled himself, and went to the living room to pick up his official mobile.

***

Mycroft Holmes didn't like surprises. 

He had grown up in a sheltered, surprise-free home. His father had been loving, but very busy with his minor position in the British government, and Mummy would get a migraine over every unexpected disruption of her life. So every day was carefully planned, every inconvenience carefully avoided due to his father's influence and his mother's social involvements. Simple people would have referred to these tactics as manipulative or even cruel, but Mycroft had learned to rely on the predictability of his daily routine. 

At least, that had been the case until his little brother had been born when he himself had been seven. Sherlock brought countless surprises to Holmes Manor, and the biggest surprise of all had been the fact that Mycroft started to like the feeling. 

He was surprised at how much he could love this little bundle, all eyes and thick black hair, at first sight. He was surprised how good it felt to be admired by the five-year old boy who clearly stated that he wanted to be exactly like Mycy when he grew up. He had been surprised at how much the seven-year old boy needed him when their father died, leaving them to the well-protected, yet unloving life with Mummy. 

But then, just when Mycroft had made up his mind and decided that he loved all those surprises Sherlock brought to his life, he had been surprised again, this time at how much Sherlock loathed him for leaving home after finishing school. He was surprised how much it hurt him that the twelve-year old boy barely looked at him the next Christmas, still sulking over being abandoned with Mummy and the usually large variety of nannies and ever-changing private teachers. 

He was surprised at how much it hurt to see the twenty-year old young man throwing away talent and spirit for the short-term relief drugs seemed to offer him, nearly throwing away his life more often than they both dared to admit afterwards. He was surprised at how bitter it felt when they both had realised what a threat Sherlock´s friendship might be for the poor doctor, once Moriarty was given the chance to detect how deep this fondness really went.

No, Mycroft Holmes didn't like surprises. So when his phone rang late that evening, he was far from amused.

“John,” he said, keeping his tone as neutral as possible. He felt bad whenever he met the good doctor, whose rage at Mycroft limited their encounters drastically. The apology offered to John in the stranger's room of the Diogenes Club had been heart-felt, even though John had had no way of knowing what Mycroft had been apologizing for that day. 

The overwhelming guilt had surprised him so much that in a feeble attempt to ease John's pain at least a little he had persuaded the other countries' spokesmen to let Britain win a lot more medals at the Olympics than he had originally intended. That meant no Nobel prizes for Great Britain in return for quite a while, but then John had never been too interested in them, so be it.

“Mycroft,” John said, and he instantly started to analyse the subliminal message of the good doctor's call. He sounded worried about something. Interesting. He knew John despised him deeply since Sherlock's “death”, so every reason to call the remaining Holmes brother must be alarming, at least to John's simple mind. “You once said if I ever needed something I should call you...” John elaborated. “Indeed, it was at the funeral,” Mycroft replied, curious where this was leading. He had already made up five different explanations for the call and several alternative solutions to John's probable requests, but the actual reason hit him completely by surprise.

“Um,” John said, in his unique, urgent, yet as unobtrusive as possible way, “I don't know how critical the situation is, but I think you should intensify your surveillance on Madrid tonight. If this isn't a danger night, I don't know what one should be.”

And for the first time in many, many years, Mycroft was speechless. 

Then, of course, his mind leapt down this new road, sorting out quite a few little details he had apparently missed during the past nine months, especially during the two times he had been alone with John at the Diogenes Club, making several decisions, and he had already sent four texts to some of his subordinates, when he remarked: “John, you really have been forced through so much pain, and you are fighting so hard to handle your, um, mourning. Everybody in your proximity will surely understand that you need a few days off to...clear your mind. The hospital has already been informed that you have spontaneously left the country for a little...rest period abroad. Don't bother with packing, you will be provided with everything you'll need. My car has already left to bring you to the airport.”

It was not hard for Mycroft to recognise that John' reply was honest: “Thank you, Mycroft.” He knew that with this call, John Watson might have saved Sherlock's life. Once more. Still, surprises were nothing he appreciated in general.

***

Sherlock Holmes stood by the window of just another hotel room   
(even more comfortable than the last one, only one entrance besides the window, 14th floor, only 11 people in the world who could make it into the room through the window without noisy technical help, 9 of them completely unaware of his existence, the other two on Mycroft´s payroll, more or less; no way of entering the room other than through the front door then)   
and stared at the outline of Madrid, his hand playing with a little plastic bag, filled with cocaine.  
(I shouldn't but it would stop all these terrible thoughts going round and round but I shouldn't John wouldn't approve of it I shouldn't have called him he´s worrying now but there's nothing he can do so why did I call him at all maybe I should take it just to stop thinking for a while no)

His thoughts   
(spinning and spinning not stopping for a second don't think about it again don't)   
always going back to the alley where he had been forced to confront Aurora Isleña two hours ago.  
(had no choice she was about to use her gun to shoot me making the decision where to hit her instead was easy between the 5th and the 6th rib driving the knife right through the heart so she wouldn’t have time to react) 

But she didn't die instantly the way she should have.  
(obviously a small medical irregularity, the heart a bit smaller than usual or the slightest bit further to the right)  
Instead she had looked at him silently, eyes wide open with shock  
(exactly the way I would look, complete surprise on her face, not willing to believe someone had outwitted her, her last thought about how in the world it had been possible for someone else to outwit her),   
only for a second   
(but still looking at me in my mind why can´t I make that stop?),   
then stumbled towards him, desperately latching to his arm with an incredible force  
(is this what imminent death does to people? Grabbing the arm of your killer, clinging to the only other human soul within your reach, regardless of the fact that he is the one who just took your life, holding on as long as possible, even though you have realised instantly that you are going to die? Looking for what, comfort? Being saved?)   
before gracelessly descending to the ground.  
(the hands holding on longer than the rest of the body, still grabbing the jacket when the legs already gave in, why do people do that? Wish I could ask John, he would know, he always knows, but he´s not here, wish he were) 

A final spasm shaking her body   
(caused by the loss of too much blood, a normal reaction of a dying body, do you still feel it or are you beyond feeling at that point? Why should that be important? Need to stop thinking about it, need to stop, need to, should I take it?),   
and then she stopped existing.  
(just like that, suddenly, eyes empty, body strangely slumped, looking much smaller than when she was still alive, and why do I think about that? Completely irrelevant, isn't it? But it was me who emptied those eyes)

Sherlock was so lost in thought   
(I shouldn't, should I? Those hands, desperately clinging to my arm, slipping away, dying, the body not able to function without the heart, I shouldn't have called him),   
that he was startled when someone knocked at the door: “Room service.” 

He leapt back to attention,   
(no order gone out, not expecting any contact, must be an assault, five ways to overpower the intruder, it was a man's voice, wasn't it, didn't pay enough attention to it, his mood, should have been more alerted, too lost in thought, concentrate!)   
sneaked to the door   
(three ways to overpower the intruder from this position without killing again, varying a little depending on his height and his choice of weapon, he would expect an attack, need to be so fast that he won't have time to react properly, best place to receive him is on the left side of the door frame)  
and answered: “I didn't order anything.”   
(obviously, only said it to buy some time and grab the knife, still blood on it? no. concentrate)  
when his mobile signalled with an incoming text.  
(John, definitely worrying, enough time to take a look at it, if intruder would have means of opening the hotel door he would be inside already, John is more important than any intruder) 

“I know,” it read, “but I brought cinnamon rolls. Let me in, would you?” Sherlock frowned.  
(Was it possible? Only with help of Mycroft, has John been that worried surely he wouldn't. But it was sent from John's mobile, all possible scenarios that include someone else using John's mobile spelt disaster, please not please not but has it been John's voice? Let's listen to it again in my head and...oh.)

Caught completely by surprise, he opened the door and looked at a sheepishly grinning John Watson.  
(new wrinkles around the eyes dark circles deprived of sleep for several months, lost weight, had a coffee on the plane read something while drinking otherwise wouldn't have hold it with right hand, didn't take time to ease hair ruffled by sleep before leaving the flat was in a hurry and not paying attention to it while on his way here I worried him).  
Still at a loss for words, Sherlock stepped aside to let him enter the room. 

While John placed the plate in the table and babbled something about the flight and the cinnamon rolls,   
(Mrs Hudson's plate given to her by her aunt Sylvia, cinnamon rolls home-made, she knows John doesn't really like them why did she give them to him when he told her he wanted to go on holiday in Spain? She knows that I love them, but... oh, clever old woman how long was she suspecting it? John clearly did not understand that she knows)  
Sherlock quickly considered an appropriate reaction,   
(pretending not to be surprised? too late for that even John must have recognised, pretend to be only slightly amused? No, inappropriate considering John had apparently contacted Mycroft which is always unpleasant and had hurried to Spain out of worry, show happiness and leave out relief? No, John wouldn't buy it after the phone call, show only relief and leave out happiness? No, would leave John disappointed)  
and when he had finally made up his mind,   
(genuine reaction? Yes, only possibility)  
he quickly crossed the distance between them with three long strides and pulled the doctor into a clumsy hug.   
(…)   
(…)   
(…)  
To his utter surprise, when John hugged back Sherlock's thoughts came to a complete stop, only for a brief moment, but long enough for him to deeply cherish the unexpected feeling.

***

Serves me right, John thought when he subtly struggled for balance after being pulled into the fierce hug. You can't surprise two Holmes' a day without being surprised at least once in return. When he realised that Sherlock would not let him go any time soon, he gracefully settled into the hug and started rubbing his friend's back a little. Damn, he DID miss him.

When he felt the other man relax and heard his breathing slow down for good, he stepped back a little and gave him a diagnostic glance. Sherlock looked strange with the short blond hair, and was clearly shaken momentarily, but otherwise fine. Obviously playing hide and seek with the world for nine months hadn't done him any harm.

“Of course I look well,” Sherlock tutted, not sounding half as offensive as he used to do. “Did you think I'd starve without you feeding me regularly?” Well, yes, John had considered the possibility, but then his tremor hadn't returned out of sheer boredom either.

He started to comment on it when suddenly Sherlock shoved a small plastic bag into his hand. “You better take this,” he mumbled, then glanced at John in discomfort. “Didn't take any, though.” John stared at the cocaine in his hand. “Well, that's... that's good, isn't it?” He tried to smile reassuringly, “You surely wouldn't...”, but Sherlock cut him off. “I would have.” 

They looked at each other for a moment, and then John nodded. “Okay, but...” “It's good you're here.” Sherlock cut him off again, then turning towards the cinnamon rolls, the lost expression all of sudden swept off his face, replaced by the usual smug grin. “So, Mrs Hudson figured out that I'm alive and you didn't notice? Really, don't you observe anything?”

***

Later, when they had settled onto the extremely comfortable sofa, it didn't feel at all like they hadn't seen each other for so long. They instantly settled back to their usual banter, Sherlock happily munching the cinnamon rolls but pretending to eat them only to please Mrs Hudson, John taking care of the exquisite leftovers from Sherlock's last meal. He realised now that when he had imagined how Sherlock might have been doing, he never really considered what it meant that Mycroft was supporting him. Of course, there was no need to content oneself with four stars only.

“So, what will happen next?” John asked, while he switched from one expensive pay-TV channel to another even more expensive pay-TV channel. “We'll leave for Italy tomorrow. Here,” Sherlock got up, caught a newspaper from the nearby table and threw it in John's direction. “Page 3, top article.” John caught it and looked at the article for a moment. “Um, Sherlock...” “Yes?” “It's written in Italian.”

“Of course. It is an Italian newspaper. Why would they write in any other language?” He shot John his best “John, really”-glance, obviously not getting the point. ”I neither speak nor read Italian,“ John explained, when Sherlock wouldn't stop looking at him quizzically. “Oh, but that's a bit debilitating when going to Italy, isn't it? Are there any other important languages you don't speak?”

They settled the following argument by agreeing on the fact that John's poor language abilities that only covered Latin (from medical classes), Spanish (from school), basic German (a former girlfriend) as well as bits of Pashto and Dari (military), were ludicrous but acceptable due to the fact that John made up for this flaw by being patient enough not to really kill Sherlock by hitting him to death with a dictionary.

Still pretending to be sulking a little Sherlock started to pace through the room and explained what had happened in Rome just the other night. Impressively unobtrusive break-in at the Pantheon, remains of first Italian king stolen, three security officers involved, one of them killed. 

“So, why would someone steal those remains?” John asked, wishing his Italian history would be a bit better than it actually was. To his surprise, Sherlock's face lit up. “Exactly the right question,” he beamed, “Go on, what do you think?” 

John sighed a little. He hated those “Show me how close you come to my brilliance”-things, but Sherlock would not continue before he had tried, so it was better to get over with it fast. “Well, “ he mused, “there must have been something valuable inside the tomb...” “No.” “...or the bones are of any value because...” “No.” He sighed deeper. “Or maybe there was something inside the tomb that didn't belong...” “No.” “or maybe someone just wanted to demonstrate...” “No.”

At that point not rolling his eyes was no longer an option. “All right, you sod, enlighten me with your superior insight,” he grumbled. How could he have forgotten how annoying Sherlock could be? “Of course, gladly” the other man answered matter-of-factly. “Imagine this: Four men sneak into the pantheon through the side-door. Bribed someone to get the key or bribed someone to leave the door open. Electronic surveillance is turned off, the pantheon empty, no spectators alarmed the police. Still, because of a “hunch” those three security men come in, confront the burglar, but only one of them is killed. A bit odd, isn't it?”

“Well,” John started, but was cut off immediately. “Two similar cases during the last four weeks, one in Lombardy, one in Tuscany.” Sherlock didn't stop pacing to throw another collection of newspaper articles onto the table. “First incident, Bergamo, 25th of March, 13:47, Banca di Marche. Four robbers, 21 hostages, a ludicrous amount of money. Of all banks at Bergamo, this one is the most complicated to break into, and also the one with the lowest amount of cash available. Twenty hostages survived, one got killed by a clean shot in the head. Accidentally? Unlikely.”

Another folder was tossed. “Livorno, 15 days later, shooting at the harbour. Two mafia families decide that after 9 years of truce it is finally time to decimate each other's number again. 17 dead members of the familia, exactly one innocent bystander hit, directly into the heart. No accident at all. And now Rome.”

John, who had watched Sherlock's agitated walk through the room, now directed his attention to the folders in front of him. The Latin he had learned at Uni helped to gain a general idea of what the articles were about, but the details were completely outside his reach. He looked at the photographs instead. The dead body of an older woman at the bank desk, a sporty looking young woman lying on the streets of a picturesque little town, a strong man of uncertain age slumped to the ground under a huge dome.

“A contract killer then? Who camouflages his assignments as other violent felonies?” That got him an intense stare. “Why do you think of it as an contract killer instead of a serial killer, John?” Sherlock asked with honest interest. 

“Well,“ John elaborated, collecting all he had learned about that topic during the last two years, “serial killers usually choose their victims because of a certain shared characteristic, or completely at random. If the bank was a lousy choice for a robbery, then that means that the woman must have been aimed at and not have been a random choice.” He looked at the pictures again. “And as the victims are so different from each other, I would also rule out a shared characteristic.”

Sherlock nodded his head slowly. “I see your point,” he said thoughtful. “Am I right, then?” John asked mildly surprised. “No, not at all. It was a serial killer, apparently, I just haven't figured out his scheme. But I like the way you thought about it. Intriguing what kind of intelligent ideas can come out of your ordinary little brain from time to time.” With that, Sherlock grinned at him and flopped down on the sofa next to John, his back facing John's shoulder. 

“Well, in that case I'm very glad that my ordinary brain and I made it here in time to entertain you and your immense intellect,” John grumbled, but tried very hard to keep the smile out of his words. “So am I, “ Sherlock tossed back, but then grew sober, “so am I.”

“Who was your first?” he asked quietly after a while. Instantly, for just one brief moment, John was back there in the officer's mess that day, still freezing from a chilly day, that boy standing in the middle of a crowd...

“Ashkan Hasimi, boy of 13,” he explained. He couldn't help but sighed. It had been a while since he talked about it to anyone. “Lived in a nearby village. Well, village... He used to come over every day, spoke a little English. Seemed to be fascinated by everything we did or said.” He could still see that young, open face some nights. “One day, he came into the mess with a bomb attached to his hips and his finger on the activator.” They had never found out if he had been planning that all along or if he had been spontaneously recruited.

“Our luck that he was very eager to tell us disbelievers what he really thought of us before blasting us to death.” Only 13, what a waste of life. “He got so carried away with his little speech that he let go of the activator and raised his hands to heaven.” So convinced he was doing the right thing. “I wasn't the only one to realise, but the first one to shoot. Clean shot right into his head.” 

John closed his eyes, but that proved to be a mistake. Ashkan's friendly face appeared again immediately. He sighed again, glad Sherlock had decided not to face him. To his surprise, he felt the other man leaning closer, actually resting his head against John's. “You're saying that time won't heal all the wounds, then?” John gave that a sad smile. “No, it won't.”

They just sat like that for a while, resting against each other, until Sherlock turned on the TV again and spent two hours explaining to John that the cases in that American show were ridiculous as he would have identified the first serial killer instantly by the unnatural way he stretched the “a”s when he spoke and the second by the way he ate his hamburgers and what did they need such a big team for, anyway?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, commenting, subcribing, leaving kudos and enjoying this. :-)


	3. The Pantheon Case

When John woke up the next morning, he was not at all surprised at the position he found himself in. They had shared a bed before on several occasions, and he already knew that Sherlock Holmes didn't just lie in a bed. He inhabited it.

So John woke up on the edge of the bed, without blanket or pillow, bound to fall out should he move another centimetre. Sherlock, on the other hand, was stretched over the entire rest of the bed, both blankets wrapped around his torso in an impossible knot, his arms outstretched from one side of the bed to the other, his head resting on John’s pillow, his belly resting on the other one. 

Sometimes, John somehow wished that situations like that would surprise him or make him feel more uneasy, but they didn't. So, instead of complaining, he got up and crept into the living room. There, on the table, breakfast had mysteriously appeared, and with it two bags filled with clothing, wallets and two tubes of dye. John eyed them curiously. One of them read “Dark copper blonde”, while the other was labelled “dark auburn”. Which, according to the pictures, simply meant “brown” and “red”. 

“The secret of hiding is decency” he heard Sherlock's voice from behind. “If someone was looking for us they would search for a tall dark-haired man in expensive clothing and a small blonde one in jeans and jumpers. We won't need that much of a disguise to hide.”

So, after a bathroom session that must have looked a lot like what Harry had been doing with her friends when she was 14, John was successfully turned into a redhead. Sherlock had straightened his now brown, no, dark copper blonde hair, and styled it into a side parting. That in combination with the faked round glasses and the jeans-and-jumper-outfit made him look several years younger and alarmingly innocent. John on the other hand found himself dressed up, trousers and shirt probably costing more than all the clothes he owned together.

He secretly had to admit that he liked the look. And he liked the way the perfectly fit white shirt and black trousers felt on his skin. Incredible how comfortable looking good could be if you only invested enough money. No wonder Sherlock always wore stuff like that. A bit scary though that Mycroft had been able to have perfectly fitting clothes tailored without ever having John measured. 

“So” John wondered while they were having breakfast (which meant that John was having a wonderful luxurious breakfast and Sherlock was having a cup of coffee he drank while ignoring the rest of the rich offering) “how will we get access to the crime scene?” “Oh, boring” Sherlock answered dismissively. “A member of the local police office will be waiting for two British journalists this afternoon. All we'll need are faked IDs, with press cards and an old fashioned camera. You'll be...” He grabbed the wallets from the bag and poked into them. “...Otis Elsworth, London Times journalist, and I will be...Oh.” His face fell, disgust spreading all over it “Barry Smith, your trainee. Damn Mycroft!”

Curious, John picked up his wallet and inspected the fake cards inside it closely. Many included pictures of him, always dressed up nicely and with red hair, though the hair style changed slightly from picture to picture. There was even a photograph attached that showed him with his...wife and three children, all five of them grinning happily into the camera. Creepy.

“Barry. Can you imagine me being called Barry?” Sherlock ranted on meanwhile. “What can you possibly achieve in life with a boring name like Barry?” John gave him a somewhat sour look: “Well, you do remember my real name, do you?” Arrogant sod. “Oh, come on,” Sherlock shrugged the matter off “you got rightfully saved from ordinary by that funny Robert Louis Stevenson-like second name your parents gave you.”

***

Camouflaging themselves might have been a quick thing, travelling to Italy without being easily traceable wasn't. It was a good thing that John liked going by plane, for their flight plan from Spain to Italy included so many stops and different planes it would have been a nightmare for someone afraid of flying. They first went to Hungary (“Oh, right, you don't speak Hungarian, for whatever reason.”), then to Sweden (“Really? Not a single sentence?”), then to Morocco (“No Arabic language at all?”), to Greece (“Not even ancient Greek?”), Albania (“Oh, please, you should know at least one of the languages spoken here.”) and finally entered Italian airspace on a scheduled flight from Moscow (“Then how can you ever be helpful when we have to deal with organised crime from Russia?”). 

When the plane landed, Sherlock was still sulking due to John's very determined reaction to the last question regarding his language skills and had therefore disturbed a promising flirtation with a good-looking stewardess by telling her why exactly her daddy had never loved her and that justifiably so.

With their luggage being picked up at the airport by the hotel, they were able to take the train to Roma Termini without delay, and only when they got out there at Rome's main station John fully realised that they were in Italy. Not only due to the sunshine and the summer-like temperatures, so unlike London that time of the year. It was like an explosion of noise and people and smell, such a huge contrast to all these months John had spent caught up in his daily faked mourning routine. He didn't know where to look first, what to take in, what to blank out, his senses nearly completely overwhelmed, his brain trying to cope with the fact that he didn't understand a single word of all the exciting chatter around him. It was fantastic.

One look at Sherlock confirmed that he was deeply enjoying all this, too. His eyes were darting around feverishly, surely taking in all details at once, but with no need to blank out anything, probably understanding what was said all around him, completely like a duck in the water, a satisfied grin on his face.

For a while John allowed himself to just drift while following Sherlock, moving through the crowd oblivious to the way, not trying to understand the people around him, just taking in the atmosphere. The whole place was buzzing with life. God, had he missed excitement.

Sherlock led their way down to the metro, impossibly deep underneath the city, an endless sequence of escalators and turns, crowded beyond compare, and more than once John had to speed up not to get lost. Reaching the platform seemed to take an incredible amount of time, even though Sherlock dashed his way through the crowd, but John enjoyed every second of it. He finally felt alive again.

And out of training. Sleep deprivation and undernourishment had left their traces, he hated to admit. Sherlock seemed to be unaware of his panting, or maybe he was just ignoring it. Didn't matter, anyway.

Inside the cramped metro they were squeezed against each other, and Sherlock used the closeness to fire random deductions into John's ear, so fast John could barely follow. “Couple over there: Both betraying their partners.” “That business man: on his way for an important meeting but knowing he's under-prepared.” “Watch out for your wallet, I've seen at least three pickpockets around.” “This woman: mother of three at least, married twice, working for a bank, diabetic, watch out, she's looking for husband no 3.” 

John giggled, the feeling of joy intensifying when he noticed the happy gleam in Sherlock's eyes. They both had missed each other’s company badly. 

When the doors of the tram opened, Sherlock dashed out at once, John close to his trail. They pushed through a crowd of tourists, businesspeople and thieves, making it from Piazza Barberini to the Pantheon in merely ten minutes.

They stopped at the crowded Piazza Della Rotonda in front of the ancient building that looked somewhat more dingy than John had imagined. Sherlock's lecture on the Pantheon had been broad, and somehow John felt that a building that had once been dedicated to every god there was and that still served as a church should look more glorious.

“It looks a lot more impressive from the inside,” Sherlock had prompted the unspoken thought as they trailed around the building in one complete circle. “How did you...” John bit his tongue almost instantly, but it was too late. “Oh, a clever observation of your eye movement and the way your shoulders slumped slightly. Easy.” It looked even more ragged from behind, with parts of the back wall crumbling away and grass growing on the spurs. “Don't worry. Like I've pointed out already, the inside is more impressive than this. Just like that telephone thing in the TV show you forced me to watch.” 

John grinned. “Are you trying to make a reference to pop culture?” “Yes. Must be your bad influence.” He grimaced in slight disgust, while John just shook his head. “You know, these references would be a lot more pointed if you would bother to remember the names of the shows.” Last time that had happened on a case it had taken John nearly twenty minutes to find out which show Sherlock meant when he said “the one with all the lousy actors”. 

When they reached the square in front of the Pantheon again, Sherlock wordlessly hopped up the stairs of the Egyptian obelisk, came to a halt on top of them (less dramatic than usual, due to the jeans-and-jumper-outfit) and just stared at the scene around them for an eternity. Very exposed for someone who was hiding from the world, but then his confidence in their disguise seemed to be endless, so it didn't really matter. Did it? Knowing all attempts to reach him now would be in vain, John simply settled down next to him, secretly happy about a chance to sit and rest.

It was a wonderful day, warm and sunny, and even though the place was crowded with tourists the atmosphere was calm and easy. The women were dressed lightly. He really liked Italy, he decided. Every now and then could he hear some sentences in English, mostly people complaining about not being allowed inside the Pantheon for two days in a row. Probably Mycroft's doing.

About half an hour later Sherlock suddenly leapt out of his frozen state and jumped down the five steps. “Come on, Otis!” he yelled, smirking, and John was barely able to follow in time. In front of the entrance a police car had parked, and an important looking man had got out of it. It must be their contact, John thought, thinking he was waiting for two journalists who wanted to see the crime scene before all evidence would be destroyed and the Pantheon opened for the public again the next day.

“Remember, I'm only your trainee who is here to take photos of the excruciating crime scene, so you have to approach the Commissario first. And the longer you can keep him talking, the more time I'll have to do the real investigation,” Sherlock whispered into his ear as they approached the man. As if they hadn't talked about it twice already. He went past Sherlock to introduce them without bothering to answer that. 

Once inside, John couldn't help but stare at the enormous dome. Sherlock had been right, it was impressive. Commissario Mandini laughed. “Beautiful, isn't it?,” the Italian remarked, waiting for John to finish taking in the scenery. The only light in the enormous room came from the hole at the top of the dome – the oculus, he reminded himself – through which you could see the blue sky. Directly beneath it there was the painted shape of the dead watchman. Too dramatic to be a coincidence?

“So,” John said, while Sherlock was running around the hall on his own already, “what exactly happened here?” Mandini sighed. “Around three in the morning, four men somehow entered the Pantheon. They opened the tomb of King Vittorio Emanuelle II with force and took out the remains.” Thinking about the fact that the king had been dead for one hundred and thirty four years, that could not have been a pleasant task. John shuddered. “Do you have any idea of why they would have done this?”

Mandini shook his head. “I must admit that we don't know. Vittorio Emanuele II is important to us, of course, but there was nothing inside that tomb besides his body. And to be honest... If you want to steal bodies from the Pantheon, why not start with Raphael's, for example?”

John looked at the marble wall that had been opened with sheer force. Sherlock had just thrown a superficial look at the site a few moments before. “This must have been extremely loud. Is this why the security team came in?” “Well, no,” Mandini admitted “but that's not a surprise. Actually, just like the residents, the security team has been informed by a faked ministerial letter that there would be some disturbances at night due to construction works at the piazza.” He reached inside his pocket and fished out a very formal looking piece of writing. “Barry, over here,” John shouted, wanting Sherlock to have at least a look at it.

But again, Sherlock only took a quick glance. He dutifully took a picture of it and dashed off almost instantly. While Mandini kept on talking about the historical relevance of the other people buried here, John kept an eye on his trainee. He was not showing any real interest in the crime scene any longer. Either he had already gathered everything he needed to know, or ...Well, there was no “or”, really. Was there? “Any idea who could have sent this letter?” Mandini shook his head uncomfortably: “No, there were no traces at all. Nobody has seen it being delivered either.”

“So, the alarm was turned off, you said?” John asked, curiously. “Yes,” Mandini confirmed, “and again I'm afraid we don't know how or by whom.” John considered that for a moment. “But if the security wasn't alarmed by the noise and wasn't called in by the alarm system, why did they enter the Pantheon at all?” By now, the Commissario was looking as uncomfortable as possible without actually squirming. “Well, one of them, Giulio Adessi, had a ... hunch. He insisted on checking out the building once more.”

Oh. “Julio Adessi was the victim, wasn't he?” Of course John knew that already, but he was still pretending to be an interested journalist and not a voluntary crime chaser who got his information directly from the British government. “Yes, poor guy.” Mandini must have seen the suspicion in John's eyes, for he quickly continued: “My people have checked up on him closely. His work was nothing but exemplary. Served for ten years, but left the forces after his last tour to Sudan in 2006. Worked for one and the same security firm afterwards, never attracted any negative attention.”

John kept recording it all, wondering about the incident and only partly paying attention to what Sherlock was doing. Still, something appeared odd about his friend's behaviour. He just couldn't put his finger on it right now. 

After only seven minutes, Sherlock signalled him secretly. He was finished, and without waiting for John to keep up he dashed out. John sighed inwardly. Leaving Commissario Mandini abruptly would surely cause suspicion, so he kept talking to the man, feigning interest, while in fact he wondered why this hadn't taken Sherlock more time.

***

Sherlock had insisted on going somewhere else, and so after wandering the streets of Rome for a while, they ended up in a café right next to the Colosseum. Sitting in the sun, John just let his thoughts flow aimlessly, taking in the scenery, while Sherlock seemed to be lost in heavy thinking. A cute Italian waitress broke the peace after some time.

“Che cosa prendono?,” she said, obviously ready to take their orders. John opened his mouth, but of course Sherlock was faster. “Due espressi, per favore e una pasta per lui. Quale ci consiglia?” Looks like he was completely out of her focus now, for she turned her full attention to Sherlock: “La torta alla fragola è fatta in casa. È molto buona.” He nodded approvingly. “Perfetto.” “E per lui?” “Gracie, non prendo niente.”

All John had understood was “espressi” and “pasta”. “Well, I ...” “Yes, I know, and pasta also means something like pastries, so don't worry, I did not order noodles for you at three in the afternoon.” “And you knew I wanted something sweet because...” “You were staring at the other plates with apparent longing. You were also staring that way at the cappuccino those Swedish tourists are having, but as it is only meant for breakfast in Italy you will surely prefer the espresso I ordered.”

When John, who would have very much wanted a cappuccino anyway, thank you, refused to show conviction, Sherlock stated: “Really, ordering cappuccino after twelve is like attaching a mistletoe above your door on Easter Sunday. You wouldn't do that either, would you?” “To be perfectly honest, yes, I would have ordered it anyway. Had I had the chance, that is.”

“I'll store that knowledge in your room” Sherlock tutted and shook his head, probably still wondering how John could even have dared to consider drinking cappuccino after midday. “My what?” John looked at him curiously. “Your room. In my mind palace. Oh Otis, please try to keep up, will you?” 

“I have my own room there?” John felt vaguely honoured. “Apparently. It used to be a wing, but I reduced it.” Oh. Well, leave it to Sherlock to make sure that feelings like that won't last. John did his best not to let his shoulders slump. Don't be silly, he told himself, most people probably don't even have a...

“You started with a box, like everyone else. But then I had to store more and more information on you, because you're so fascinatingly unpredictable. Your reaction to body parts in the fridge, for example. Toes drove you crazy, a head only made you shake yours. I made up a whole new box only for that. You are so much more interesting than other people.”

“Well” John started, pleased, but Sherlock was far from being finished. “So first I built an extra shelf for you, then added a whole room, but information still kept coming in. I never want to delete anything I learn about you, and before I noticed it, the room had become a wing.” 

“That's flattering,” John admitted, “but why did you ...” That earned him another “John, please”-glance. “Flattering? Apparently your mediocre middle class childhood has prevented you from ever living a house that is big enough to have wings.” Now was he getting compliments or was he being insulted? John kind of lost track, but Sherlock seemed far from noticing and would continue talking anyway.

“Wings are cold and empty, while you are warm and caring. So I reduced the wing to a well heated living room again, with a comfortable armchair beneath the big window. One of those that face south-west, so the gentle evening sun permanently creates bright spots on the soft carpet and being there makes you feel safe and at home. I was fighting with the narrowness of space but solved it by including bottomless boxes.”

A compliment, then. One that hit home. John smiled at him, a smile that widened when he saw Sherlock flushing ever so slightly. “I spent an unreasonable amount of time there after I left London” he admitted. Somewhat at a loss for words, John simply patted his friend's arm affectionately. 

Then, when their order came, he braced himself for the inevitable posh lecture on why ordering cappuccino after midday was a really comprehensive school thing to do. But when he let it wash over him, he started to think about their visit to the Pantheon again. Why had Sherlock been that fast in investigating the scene? 

When he looked thoughtfully at Sherlock their eyes locked for a moment, and John knew that within a split second his friend had deduced exactly what John was thinking. To his surprise, Sherlock looked away quickly again for a moment, then shook his head ever so slightly. All right, not here, then. John slightly nodded in return and they continued talking about Italian eating habits and the advantages of a mediocre middle class childhood. A stranger wouldn’t have realised that something had been discussed between the two of them, a discussion that would have to be finished later, in private.


	4. Turning Point

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is a bit shorter than usual. The next one will be longer again, I promise.

This time John wasted no time looking around at the hotel suite Mycroft had arranged for them. “What is wrong?” he asked instead, facing Sherlock who pretended to be busy taking off his shoes. How did he manage to look elegant in situations like this? “I don't know what you mean,” Sherlock tried, and that really made John explode.

“Don't. Do that. To me.” he nearly yelled. “Don't you dare to lie to me.” They stared at each other for a while, a whirl of emotions crossing over Sherlock's face within a split-second. Then he sighed, looking slightly uncomfortable, but still not admitting anything. John sighed as well. “Sherlock, you barely looked at anything inside the Pantheon, and you didn't even ask about what Commissario Mandini told me. Then our trip around the entire building and you standing next to the obelisk for thirty minutes, completely exposed ... You weren't there to observe. You were there to be seen.”

“Remember when I asked you to apply my methods? I'll take it back. Don't use them.” Sherlock huffed. But there was more to his expression than sulking. Something John really, really didn't like. Was it shame? Impossible. But then ...

John moved a bit closer. “Whom were you presenting us to?,” he asked. Darkness crossed Sherlock's face, reluctance and ... regret?. He averted John's eyes when he answered: “Sebastian Moran. He was my ...” He obviously was searching for the right expression, only to settle on “...ex-John.” “Your ... excuse me, he was your what? Your ex? Like in ex-boyfriend?” Sherlock sighed, the sigh that usually meant something between “you're an idiot” and “I don't want to talk about it”.

“My ex-John. Friend of the family. Grew up with him, more or less. We lived together when I moved to London. He did everything for me you always do now: bought food, was able to stand my vagaries, praised me with every existing superlative...” “Our relationship in a nutshell,” John drily remarked. 

“Exactly. Only that he lacked your ... goodness. He adored me up to a point where he would have done anything for me. He even went out to get me cocaine if needed, took it with me against his conviction so we would have something more in common.” Sherlock turned his back on John, looking out of the huge window, his slim frame picturesquely surrounded by the silhouette of the Eternal City. 

Not for the first time John tried to create the image of a younger Sherlock in his mind. Even more driven by his genius, restless and striving for distraction. Pointlessly trying to occupy his mind with what the uni had to offer, relying on chemical stimulation to keep himself sane. Now add a friend to the scenario who supported him unhesitatingly... John shuddered.

“Back then I was only allowed to a few cases” Sherlock went on, his voice flat. “The restlessness was driving me crazy, even more than it does now. And when I was close to falling off the edge of addiction ...” He finally turned around. “The serial murders were of such an elegance, John, disguised as suicides, but all the hints just within my reach. Hidden where no-one else could find them, just barely exposed enough for me to realise. He was providing me with a stage. It was enthralling. And I was brilliant. You should have seen me, John, dancing like that for the first time in my life ...”

John only nodded, not daring to destroy the rare openness by talking. “It took me five victims to even consider Sebastian could be the murderer. The corpses were manipulated so the time of death was determined wrong, always leading to a time of death when he had been with me. His methods were varying, cooling them down, heating them up, including maggots before any would develop naturally ... He was brilliant.” His eyes seemed to be lost in the past, not noticing John at all. For a while, they both kept the silence.

“Do you think he loved you?” John then asked, but Sherlock seemed to dismiss that idea instantly. “Come on, John, why should someone love me?” He looked out of the window again, his back turned towards John, who felt a strangely sad feeling spreading in his stomach. “You really can't think of a reason why, can you?” he asked softly. He was ignored.

“Now you understand why Mycroft had put you to the test in the warehouse.” John nodded thoughtfully. “I always thought I had passed that test,” he said. “Oh, but you didn't. You failed, and failed spectacularly. When Mycroft realised how loyal you were after just a few hours, how determined, how brave... All those weak little traitors that had moved in with me over the years had never bothered him. But with you, he instantly increased the surveillance at the flat to a maximum.”

They stood next to each other like that for a while, gazing at the city below, sharing the silence. It would have made for a perfect ending to their talk, hadn't there been something that was still nagging at John. “So, that was...how long ago? Ten, fifteen years?” He saw Sherlock stiffen. He had a point, then. He waited for a moment, giving Sherlock the chance to bring it up himself. When his friend let this moment going to waste, he steeled himself. Soldiered on, once more. 

“He apparently killed more than five people in cold blood. How did he get out of jail so soon?” The absence of an answer confirmed his suspicion. Again, he pictured young Sherlock, growing up in that loveless home, having but one friend in his life ... “You didn't turn him in to the police, did you? You let him get away.” The silence stretched out between them, Sherlock's shoulders the only thing that gave his tautness away. 

Did he also see the crossroad that presented itself to John right now? Of course he did. Letting a serial killer get away over sentiment was more than a bit not good. It was inexcusable. Especially to a man with such high moral standards as John. Normally. But then ... John sighed, thinking of Lestrade's words right at the beginning of it all. Hoping that Sherlock would become a good man one day. Well, all in all it seemed like they were heading in the right direction. He had just never realised what a long way Sherlock had already come. 

So, instead of turning away for good, he gave Sherlock a clap on his back, and then went to find the phone to tell the room service they needed some tea. Sherlock remained standing at the window for what seemed like forever, ignoring John, tea and everything around him, but with his shoulders a lot more relaxed than before. 

John fell asleep on the sofa waiting for Sherlock to get out of his frozen state. When he awoke in the middle of the night, he was covered with a blanket.


	5. The Umbrian Case

When John got up the next morning   
(slightly stiffer than usual but trying to hide it, shouldn't sleep on a sofa for four hours, no dark circles under his eyes slept better than I expected can't be too upset about what I did, was serious about it yesterday, but is still here)  
Sherlock was already dressed and looking through the files again  
(where is the connection between the victims? He is trying to tell me something is it only that he knows I'm alive? must be more to it, he's too clever to convey but one message with this, where's the connection? not gender, not age, not profession, not heritage, not hobbies, not denominations, there's something I can't see).

“Did you get some sleep?” John asked  
(concerned. Scanning my face for signs of tiredness, still concerned about my welfare, everything could be fine again, has to be fine again, it was so long ago but body held extremely straight, reserved feels awkward).  
“No” Sherlock answered matter-of-factly  
(he knew I didn't, only asked to make sure I don't miss the fact that he's concerned, knows that I sometimes miss those things, wants to show me we are fine, only does so after serious incidents. so it had been close last night, would him walking away have been deserved? Need to show I'm grateful he's still here).  
Without taking his eyes from John he got up and called the reception   
(young woman between twenty and twenty-four years old, from Salerno, parents with poor education, worked hard to get rid of that accent, lots of routine, bored, good at faking interest, has been working at the reception for two to five years)  
for two cappuccinos   
(which translates into “Are you still angry?” in normal people's language, normal people would talk about it, we aren't normal people but it needs to be discussed can't risk losing John now. he wanted cappuccino yesterday but didn't get it, will notice the gesture of good will)

John gave him a little smile that didn't quite reach his eyes  
(“Not angry, but disappointed.”, angry would mean no smile at all, not disappointed would mean smile reaching his eyes as well, don't want him to be disappointed, angry is better, angry is yelling and blowing his cheeks in frustration, but disappointed is silence and absence of genuine smiles and being unsure)  
and sat down at the table next to Sherlock  
(unconsciously moving the chair away from me just slightly, disappointment runs deeper than he admits to himself, need to fix it, how? seldom tried to fix something like that).  
Sherlock removed the cover from the scrambled eggs and shoved them in John's direction  
(loves scrambled eggs for breakfast, but barely ever makes them for himself at home, always orders them at hotels, these are exactly as he likes them with chives and not too dry because I ordered them that way. “I'm sorry.”).  
John accepted them and skilfully piling them up on his toast   
(another half-hearted smile that doesn't reach his eyes “I know.”).

“So, what will happen now?” he asked, chewing the toast and eggs  
(looking at the toast instead of me, but body now slightly leaning towards me, shoulders starting to lose tension, finally making eye contact, face open but still at guard. “Don't keep another thing like that secret from me.”)  
“Sebastian will let me know if he has seen me here. Until that, we'll wait.”  
(looking him straight in the eye again, completely open, no pretence, no faked emotions, deliberately not leaning closer to him, would think it's manipulation, movement on John's forehead tells me that he realises that I'm promising “I won't.”)

“Well,” John smiled a little, “there are worse places to wait for something than Rome, right?”  
(hasn't made up his mind about the city just yet, always needs some time before falling for a place, but has already realised I love Italy, wants me to share it with him, “We're still friends, you know?”)  
“Absolutely. And as you've never been here before, it's imperative that we enhance your poor education by visiting at least a few of the more important sights.”  
(smile reaching his eyes now, sipping for the first time at the cappuccino I ordered, understands I want to share my love for Rome with him, knows I seldom do that, knows that I'm offering more than a guided tour, “I hope so.”)

John reached for another slice of toast, shoving some of the food in Sherlock's direction in the process  
(not accidentally, of course he noted I'm not eating, no need to voice it, discreet frown indicates he doesn't approve, so he still cares, not only concerned but actively convincing me to eat “We'll be fine.”)  
and Sherlock pondered some of the fruit before obediently putting a single grape into his mouth  
(only because John needs confirmation as much as I do “Yes, we will.”).

***

The next three days had a touch of surreal. They were waiting for a signal coming from Moran, yet, as they couldn't speed up the process, they were able to enjoy something that felt a lot like ordinary holidays. It was like the quiet before the storm: peaceful, but bound to come to an end soon. 

John had found out that Sherlock's love for Italy originated from very fond childhood memories of holidays the family spent there regularly before his father had died. After having revealed all about Sebastian Moran Sherlock was unusually eager to share his feelings and memories with John. Just like his father, Sherlock preferred the ancient Roman history to the Christian history, and so John had got his own private guided tour through ancient Rome. 

The days were a constant switch between sightseeing and coffee breaks, during which Sherlock would scan any newspaper lying around for signs of Moran taking action again, while John would just let his mind wander and basically came to a rest he hadn't felt for a long time. The nights were spent at the restaurants, where Sherlock usually charmed the waiters into recommending only the best home-made dishes, sometimes even creating new dishes simply by telling them how important their opinion was to him. 

Who would have thought that “Sherlock Holmes” and “holidays” were not two concepts that excluded each other?

At noon of the fourth morning, the peace came to its inevitable end. It happened rather fast: a call from Mycroft, a frown from Sherlock, and before John knew what was happening, they were sitting in a train heading towards Umbria. 

Thanks to someone's influence they had a six-seat compartment on their own, and as soon as the train left Roma Termini Sherlock pulled a new folder out of a outworn bag that fit perfectly to the Barry-Smith-and-Otis-Elseworth-disguise they were still wearing. “House owner shot during burglary.” he explained, handing the files over to John.

Written in Italian again. He sighed, but Sherlock was still in a very courteous mood. “Banker Ronaldo Adigi, killed last night inside his study. Door was locked from the inside, window wide open, a reasonable amount of money missing from his cash box. According to the police a burglary with accidental casualty.”

“But we don't think so?” John asked, looking closer at the photographs attached to the file. Adigi had been shot in the head from behind, his desk a mess, the cash box lying open on the ground. “Why?”

Sherlock placed a map of Umbria on the small table. “Adigi lived here” he pointed at very, very small dot right in the middle of nowhere, “in a small aggregation of houses that belong to the community of this little village.” He pointed at another small dot. John eyed the dots curiously. “So?” “It's the mountain village where my family used to spent the better part of the holidays. We owned a house there. Sebastian accompanied us a number of times.”

Sherlock's eyes drifted out of focus for a moment. He seemed to watch the scenery outside the window, but John doubted that he noticed much of the landscape they passed on their journey to Valle Umbra. “We stopped going there when father died. Sebastian knows that I've always talked about returning there one day ...” “But you never did?” Sherlock just shook his head, and the rest of the journey was passed in silence.

When they arrived at the train station, the tiniest bus John had ever seen was already waiting for the passengers, and soon it was taking them uphill the serpentine, offering John a fascinating view of the valley they had just passed through, up to the little village located at the hill's peak.

More fascinating, though, was the expression it created on Sherlock's face. It was a faraway look, with a smile that made his eyes wrinkle a little. He seemed to lazily observe the surrounding, probably comparing them to those from his childhood memories, and made eye contact with John every other minute, his smile broadening every time he saw that John smiled back.

After only a short stop at the hotel (the best around, of course, but “only” four stars, what a pity) they finally arrived at the house of the Adigi family. Located in the midst of hills with olive groves, detached from the other houses, a perfectly idyllic place to live, had it not just been the backdrop of a brutal murder. 

They had decided to continue using their journalist identities, but Sherlock had also made clear that some prejudices concerning the Italian police were not really prejudices and that Mycroft's involvement gave them unlimited access to the crime scene. Sherlock was already circling the house before the local police officer had a chance to greet John.

Carabiniere Pezzutto was a nice young man, eager to please them (who knows what he had been told – or what he had been given) and completely overchallenged with a homicide. “This is the first murder in our community in forty-seven years,” he explained as he let them into the house. “We've been told that we should not touch anything until you've seen it, so we didn't.” 

He smiled at John, and if he thought this order to be weird, he never let it show. It was good that they didn't really had to act out their disguise, for no watcher would have believed Sherlock to be John's assistant. Unlike the Pantheon, this crime scene turned him from Undercover Avenger to Consultant Detective in mere seconds. 

He hopped around excitedly, eyed the corpse at the desk with critical interest and disappeared for several minutes while John took some more time to look at the late Adigi. The upper part of his body was lying on the desk, his dead eyes wide open, the large, strangely smeared puddle of blood underneath his head turned to brown. Flies were buzzing around his head. It smelled. Italy in spring probably wasn't the right place to let a corpse lie around uncovered for a couple of hours.

“And?” Sherlock's voice suddenly asked right next to him, and John couldn't help but jump. Damn. He looked up quizzically. “And... what do you want to hear?” This of course brought him only an “Isn't-it-obvious”-look. “Tell me something about the victim,” Sherlock commanded, looking at him expectantly. 

“Well...” John carefully considered what kind of answer Sherlock was looking for, then gave up and simply summed up everything he had gathered so far: “Shot in the back of his head, small bullet at high speed, dead for about six hours, um...”

“And now the brilliant part, please,” Sherlock prompted. “And that would be...?” It was always interesting to watch how Sherlock was able to express annoyance, arrogance and expectation at the same time. 

“Tell me how we know that the murderer has not been in here.” Now Pezzutto came closer. “Er... sorry, but of course the murderer has been in here. Can't you see all the hints?” They both stared at him for a moment. 

Sherlock took a deep breath, opened his mouth and John unobtrusively kicked his shin. “How did he get in, then?” Sherlock asked instead, with the nicest smile on his face. “Well, through the open window.” “Without leaving any kind of footsteps on the freshly raked flower bed underneath the window? Without using the ladder that has not been moved in four weeks, according to the spider webs? Without disturbing the adhesive residues of a glass of coke that has been standing on the inside of the window sill three days ago?”

Poor boy, John thought. Pezzutto seemed to think the same. He started to sweat a little. The nice smile on Sherlock's face grew a little broarder. “And could you please tell us what you think the murderer has done in here?”

Pezzutto shrunk a little, but bravely ventured on: “Well, he shot Adigi in the head...” “Without making Adigi turn around at the sound of someone entering his room through the window? Without leaving gunshot residues?” The Carabinieri's eyes started to blink rapidly. 

“Um...and... he took the money from the cash box and...” “What money?” “Excuse me?” Pezzutto squealed. He now seemed like he was close to fainting. Hopefully Mycroft's involvement meant lots of money for him, for he surely deserved it. 

“You say the murderer took money from the cash box,” Sherlock explained very friendly and gestured to the little blue box lying on the floor next to the desk. “Why do you think so?” “Because according to the accounting book there should be at least 50.000 Euro more in it.” Pezzutto looked like he instantly wanted to vanish from the face of the earth. 

“Oh, the accounting book says so,” Sherlock mocked him, voice so friendly it raised John's hair. “Well, apparently Adigi would never fake the balance sheet, right? He surely had better ways to cover the fact that he was a compulsive gambler who had lost nearly all his private money, right?” Still smiling Sherlock produced several papers he must have collected when he had left the room for that few minutes: borrower's notes, bank statements, lottery tickets, tickets for horse racing.

Pezzutto just stared. Sherlock smiled back. “But the murderer ...” the Carabiniere stuttered, “he dropped the cash box on the floor and ...” “Otis?” Sherlock prompted, and John needed a second to realise he was meant. At least he knew now what he should have answered earlier on. “He got shot into the occipital lobe of the cerebrum. Theoretically nothing can be said against him surviving for a minute or two. He could also have been able to move his arms.”

A brutal picture formed in his mind now, one that Sherlock must have seen at the very first look: Adigi had got shot in the back of his head, sunk to the desk, but had been aware of it at some level, trying to fight it, maybe trying to hold on to something, smearing his own blood all over the desk with his arms in his final death struggle, and with that pushing the cash box down on the floor. 

John shuddered. He felt Sherlock's glance fixed on him and met his eyes. A brutal murder, just to show them Moran knew they were after him. There was no false friendliness in his voice anymore when Sherlock matter-of-factly explained: “You will find that the victim got shot from the empty house on the other side of the street using a special kind of long-range rifle. Never mind finding the sniper, we'll see to that.” And with that he left, John hurrying to stay by his side.

***

“No!”

Sherlock's angry voice made John wake up with a start. He sleepily looked at the alarm clock at the bedside locker. 4:12 a.m. With a sigh he got up – and stopped almost instantly in astonishment. When he had fallen asleep last night, Sherlock had been sitting at the table, head bent over the files he had collected. Now one entire wall of the hotel room was covered with sheets of paper and photographs. Some of them simply hung there, others were covered with Sherlock's surprisingly neat handwriting. 

He himself had turned his back towards John and was muttering something unintelligible at an incredible speed. “You've been busy,” John stated drily, which made the other man jerk. That was not good. A jerking Sherlock was barely ever a good sign. When he avoided to meet John's questioning glance the dreadful feeling in his stomach grew worse.

“I've been an idiot, and it is your fault,” Sherlock accused him, shaking his head in disbelieve. “What are you talking about, Sherlock?” John asked, moving closer. “I solved it.” “You found out what the victims had in common?” That should have been good, shouldn't it? Then why was John having the feeling that something was going terribly wrong? 

“Sentiment” Sherlock spat at him. “I should have seen it so much earlier. But I didn't, because I didn't want to see it. Just like an ... an ordinary person.” He ruffled his hair in anger, then turned around to meet John's eyes. ”I know exactly why these four people had to die,” Sherlock stated, his voice now barely a whisper. Instead of explaining he stepped aside and let John look at the papers hanging directly in front of him. Another very bad sign.

The vitae of the victims, all four in a row. In each of them, a single phrase was frantically circled with a pen several times. John frowned and stepped even closer. He skimmed over that of Lucia Mazzini, the woman who got shot at the bank robbery. The circle made of ink was curled around her profession. “Doctor”.

Then his eyes wandered to the file of Julio Adessi, who died at the Pantheon. “Former soldier”. Oh.

Romina Vendosso, the victim of the mafia gunshot. “Sister alcoholic” This was bad.

Then his eyes fell on the fourth person's vita. Ronaldo Adigi, the young banker who got killed here at home in a burglary. He looked at the single word inside the circle, and what had been an unpleasant mixture of astonishment and fear turned into a rush of anger. Really a much, much better feeling, he secretly admitted to himself. He furiously turned towards Sherlock. “What does that mean, “gay”?” he shot, and continued to study the sheet. “Here, look, he was semi-famous in Umbria for this blog he had. Why did you circle gay?” 

“Oh,” Sherlock said with his most insincere pleasing voice, “my mistake.” John glared at him, but he could have sworn that there had been the idea of a smirk on his friend's face. Sod. “All right then, why is your ex-John slowly killing me?”

Now Sherlock was all sober again, every hint of a smile washed away and replaced by something dark. “He's showing me his next victim.” They stood in silence for a while, not really knowing what else to say. “Well,” said John, “I think it's best if we start to ...” “That's why you are leaving in the morning,” Sherlock cut him off.

“I … what? Surely no. No way.” John looked at him in disbelief. He couldn't really think...With a swift move Sherlock turned around, literally running up and down the room, starting to randomly pick up things that belonged to John and piling them on the table. “Unacceptable,” he murmured, then started speaking so fast John only understood single phrases like “leaving” and “Mycroft will arrange” and “won't happen”.

“Sherlock,” John tried to be noticed, but failed. His friend seemed to be completely out of reach now, still moving through the hotel room like a mad bouncy ball, talking to himself in sheer desperation. The pile on the table grew and grew. “Sherlock,” John tried again, only to be ignored again. 

He felt silent, just watched Sherlock for a few minutes, wondering if his friend could stop now if he wanted to. “I'm not leaving,” he quietly stated after an eternity. “Yes, you are.” Sherlock didn't even look at him. Didn't even hesitate for a second.

John hadn't been sure what he had felt before, but now it became clear to him that anger was rising in his chest. And Sherlock really gave him no reason to swallow it. “I don't know what you're thinking, but ...” he started sharply, and was cut off again. “Exactly. And you don't have to know. Just leave.”

Frustrated, John felt his hands clenching. “Oh, don't I have any say in what will happen to me?” He noticed that he was shouting now, but wouldn't back down now. Even though being the single goal of Sherlock's focused anger was not a good feeling. “No, you don't,” Sherlock shouted back, his eyes blazing, his hand clutching the glass he had just picked up from the table so hard his knuckles turned white.

That topped it off completely. “Who do you think you are?” John snapped at him, still too loud, still too angry. “Why do you think you can send me away like a stupid little puppy?” 

“Because I CARE FOR YOU!” Sherlock yelled, and underlined his point with the glass forcefully smashed against the wall. Pretty dramatic, but it worked instantly to sober them both. John stared at him, his own anger melting away as he saw his friend trembling with exertion and ... fear? 

“Listen,” he said quietly, and when Sherlock averted his gaze he grabbed him by his shoulders, not willing to let him slip away now. “Sherlock, I'm not a damsel in distress, all right?” At least he got no audible objection here. “I've been a soldier. I've got a Conspicuous Gallantry Cross. I'm not going anywhere.”

Sherlock just glared at him for a moment, still visibly excited. Then he shook his head. “Sebastian is highly unstable and extremely intelligent. There's no telling what he's going to do.” “Yeah,” John sighed, “a personality profile I'm completely unaccustomed to.” That nearly got him a smile from Sherlock, who hadn't moved away after John had let go of his shoulders.

“John, I can't concentrate on catching him when I worry about you all the time,” he explained, but John shook his head almost instantly: “Well, I'd worry about you all the time if you sent me away now, and after spending nine months constantly worrying about you I'm really sick of it.” Sherlock looked as if he wanted to comment on that, but then decided against it. They watched each other for a while.

“I'm not leaving you,” John then declared, quietly but final, and with that it was settled.

***

The plan had been simple but sound: They would go out after lunch, stroll around the village for a while, pretend to be interested in sightseeing but in fact get familiar with the surrounding and hopefully find a clue about where Moran might be hiding.

Taking his gun with him made John feel better, but not half as good as it seemed to make Sherlock feel. He was still pointing out how the village had changed in this spot and not at all in that like last night, but his heart wasn't in it any longer. Instead his eyes were darting around, checking the streets they walked for hours for whatever hints he was hoping to find.

“It's a shame we're not here on holidays” John sighed, while Sherlock tried to pretend not to secretly enjoy the fantastic take-away ice-cream they had bought at the bar. “You like it here?” he asked, without stopping to watch everything around them simultaneously. “Yes, it's ...”

John stopped mid-sentence when a loud shot broke through the quietness of the afternoon. He instantly felt a sharp pain at the back of his head, and then something wet dripping down his neck. He froze with sheer panic for a second, and Sherlock staring at him with obvious horror didn't help. The world stood still, and every nerve cell in his body was firing with tension. 

Then his brain kicked in, telling him that had he really been shot in the head he would already be lying at the ground by now, dying or dead. He reached for the liquid on his head and eyed it curiously. Yellow paint. He had been shot at by a paint gun.

By the time John had realised what had happened Sherlock was already running towards one of the nearby houses, only to spin around at full speed, grab John by his sleeve and continue his sprint into the house. The door wasn't locked, and within less than thirty seconds they were standing inside an empty room on the second floor.

On the ground there was a paint gun with a post-it attached to it. Two words were written on it: “I could”.

John could feel the prospect of him staying in Italy dwindling down rapidly. He looked at Sherlock who was deducing whatever from the carpet or the ceiling or something. Or was pretending to deduce something so he wouldn't have to look at John. “I'm fine” John said lamely, knowing that it wouldn't make any difference, for Moran had made his point clear: There was no way John would be safe, no matter what they did.

When there was nothing more inside the room that could possibly be deduced, Sherlock reluctantly glanced at John with an odd expression on his face. “We'll return to the hotel,” he stated flatly, and John only nodded. 

They walked back in silence. Sherlock was still holding on to John's sleeve, a gesture that would have made John smile had he not just been demonstrated how serious the threat to his life was. Back inside their suite they checked each room carefully before Sherlock finally let go of John.

“I need to think” he declared, sinking down on the sofa. John nodded: “I'll go and get the paint out of my hair.” He got no response, but hadn't expected any. Sherlock seemed to be deeply lost in thought already, so he went into the bathroom to wash his hair.

Into the bathroom they had just checked out together. Only that two minutes ago there had not been another post-it sticking on the shower cubicle. “8 o'clock, Taverna Del Teatro” it read. John grabbed his gun, but before he could call for Sherlock, his world went black.


	6. Meeting Seb Moran

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right, it gets a bit nasty now. Remember the warning that there will be "Graphic Depictions of Violence" and "torture"? That's starting now. (Hope you enjoy it anyway. Evil me!)

he first thing John felt when he woke up was that he was lying on his back on something that could have been a table. He was restrained, but not tied too hard. Carefully he tried not to show that he was awake, listening first to collect as much information as possible. 

The way his head was still swimming told him that he had been taken out chemically, not by physical force. Great. He heard one set of footsteps near his head. Probably Moran, or one of his minions, given he had any.

The footsteps came to a halt. No other sound could be heard. His captor must be watching him. Must be Moran then. John waited. So did Moran. “I know you're awake, John,” a soft voice whispered into his ear, and John could barely stop himself from shivering. All of a sudden his arms were pulled back with force. Moran was tying him up. He could have done it while John was unconscious, but he had waited until John had come around again to feel it. So this was going to be a power game. 

People usually underestimated John H. Watson. Sherlock barely ever did, of course, which had pleased John immensely right from the beginning. But in general, he didn't mind being underestimated, especially when it resulted in advantages on his side.

His class mate Frank Stratton, for example, had made that mistake when they were both 16. Aiming at impressing Melissa Gravis so she would go to the Winter Dance with him, he had spotted small John as a good victim for some intense beating up. It had earned Frank a broken nose and several deep cuts and it had earned John a date for the Winter Dance with Melissa Gravis.

Or when his unit had gotten captured near Kunduz. None of their captors had identified him as the most dangerous member of the team. With a special training in dealing with hostage situations. That ended in a disaster for the captors and with a Conspicuous Gallantry Cross for John. A fact Sebastian Moran was ignorant of. At least, he seemed to be the next one to make that mistake. 

He must have done some research on him, John mused, thinking about his choice of victims, and yet he underestimated the fact that John had been a soldier. Only that could explain why Moran had neither blindfolded nor gagged John when he had tied him up. It was this realisation that made John hope to come out of this alive.

If Moran wanted to feel power over John, it would be a good idea to give him exactly what he wanted, at least for now. It would also be a good idea to speak as little as possible, at least for the time being. No reason to bring Moran's attention to his own mistakes. When John heard him approaching the other end of the table to tie John's legs up harder, he obediently struggled against it, groaning a little. Not too hard, only so much to show Moran his fear. Then he opened his eyes to look at his opponent for the first time. 

His eyes didn't rest for long on the aristocratic, good looking face, framed by blonde hair, or his well-tailored clothes. John couldn’t help but think that he and Sherlock must have made a breathtaking pair of mates back in their youth. What his eyes finally rested on was the smug look of superiority that was displayed on Moran's face, on his entire bearing. That was good. It was John's intended goal to keep this expression in place as long as possible.

Surely Sherlock must be searching for him already, and it would only be a matter of time until John would be rescued. All he had to do now was playing for time. And the longer Moran thought he was in control, the better. He averted his glance, looking at the white plastered wall instead, allowing some of the fear he felt to show on his face. Moran instinctively responded by smiling with satisfaction. 

“Yes, John, you should be scared. Sherlock's not going to find you, you know?” Moran teased him. “I know how his mind works, and believe me, I'm exactly where he will be searching last. When it will be to late to save you.” Again, John allowed some of his fear to surface. This could turn out to be a bit tricky, keeping unwanted emotions at bay while displaying them to Moran at the same time. He swallowed unwillingly. 

The smug smile on Moran's face widened. “Yes, you will die here,” he said with delight, entirely misreading the reason for John's swallowing. Then his eyes narrowed. “Well, maybe I should deliver you from your pain right now. It won't matter how long you have been dead when Sherlock finally finds you, will it?” He's bluffing. God, let him be bluffing. The look in Moran's eyes grew cold, determined, and his hands closed on John's throat. Please, let him be bluffing.

With a cold smile still on his lips, Moran started to strangle him forcefully. “No,” John choked out, not needing to pretend to sound panicked. He involuntarily tried to move away from his grip, but he was tied up so tightly he could barely moved at all. Moran wouldn't have taken the time to tie him up had he really wanted to kill him immediately afterwards. John adhered to that thought with all his strength while his body was starting to twitch uncontrollably. He couldn't breathe, couldn't stop his body from trying to get air, his torso rocking violently within its restrains. His ears were ringing, and bright spots were dancing in front of his eyes while the room was growing darker. 

Their eyes locked, and Moran's face was nothing but determined. John felt his lungs burning. God, please let him be bluffing. For a second, Moran loosened his grip, and John choked in as much air as possible before the hands closed around his throat once more. So he was still playing with him. He would not die now. He felt his hands clenching helplessly, his vision dimming rapidly. He would wake up again. He wouldn't die now. The last thing John heard when his body started to go limp was Moran chuckling.

***

The taverna was as plain as Sherlock remembered it from his childhood.  
(same tiles, tables in similar style, rural but welcoming, walls still beige, but apparently refreshed, table cloth red and white instead of green and white)  
A young waiter watched him coming in. “Signore Holmes, questa tavola, per favore.”  
(between eighteen and twenty-one years old, studying, grew up here, owner's son)  
He was led to a table set for two and placed on the chair facing the wall.  
(putting me in the more insecure position, a predictable power play, so are the two gunmen sitting on the tables to the right and to the left, guns hidden underneath shirts, one of them always able to aim at me)  
Above the empty chair in front of him there was a black-and-white photograph.  
(old view of the main square, looked like that when we spent the holidays here, another predictable move).  
When Sebastian approached him from behind  
(reflection on the picture frame)  
he didn't turn around to greet him: “Sebastian, how nice that you could find some time for me. I thought you were thoroughly busy tormenting Dr. Watson.”  
(guard up, he could never stand my sarcasm, always hurt by it, can't risk more with two guns pointed at me and John in his power)

They were sitting opposite each other in silence for a moment,   
(time to watch him more closely: attitude a lot more self-confident than in his youth, face and hands very soigné, expensive clothes that look deceptively plain, eyes hard, has lost weight fast lately, dark rings under his eyes nearly covered by make-up, mourning?)  
before Sebastian leaned closer. “You have changed,” he stated.  
(always had a talent for stating the obvious, boring)  
“Boring,” Sherlock countered.  
(don't show him how unpleasant his scrutinising glance feels, why is that so? Need to ask John, need to save John!)  
Then, with an unexpected move, Sebastian reached out and placed his hand on Sherlock's.  
(unpleasant, overstepping his boundaries on purpose, but don't flinch, don't show rejection, don't give him the satisfaction of a reaction)  
“Well, only so much, then,” Sebastian went on, “you still don't like being touched, do you?”  
(hurt in his voice? hand still placed firmly, don't flinch)  
“Not by me, that is. On all those tapes it always looked as if you didn't mind being touched by your good doctor...”  
(knew Seb was observing us one way or another, probably the camera in the kitchen I couldn't match to someone yet)  
“Or touching him, for that matter. The way you pulled that Semtex off of him....”  
(but how did he...)  
And then, finally, Sherlock understood  
(been such an IDIOT, how else could he have known I'm still alive? Needed to have access to immense resources, only probable source for that was...).

He looked at Sebastian coldly now, and said, imitating him: “Dear Jim, I'm looking for a way to hurt an old friend of mine. I think you know him already...”  
(odd expression on Seb's face, not only smugness, but pain as well)  
“And Jim was extremely willing to let me help. Said he needed me. Made me his second.”   
(eyes out of focus for a second, pulse increasing, this is not just about power, but about affection and grief)

“He never minded me doing this...” Sebastian reached out for Sherlock now, cupping his face  
(unpleasant, can't help but stiffen, Seb noticed, causes him pleasure, don't pull back),  
brushing his cheek with his thumb  
(unpleasant!, try to block it out, underestimated the affection involved, John was right, need to reassess, unrequited love is more dangerous than disappointed friend).

“But one day, he didn't return to me.” Sebastian went on, his hand on Sherlock's hand again, his fingernails drilling into Sherlock's skin  
(don't pull back, painful, but preferable to touching face, seven possible remarks in my mind, all of them endangering John further, don't flinch).  
“Said he would finish his business with you once and for all.”  
(expression clearly painful now, fingernails still hurting, don't flinch)  
“I thought it was some kind of poetic justice that you both had died that day.”  
(don't grin, don't tell him that Moriarty wouldn't have killed himself had he really felt attached to Sebastian)

“Imagine my surprise when I found out who was still alive, disabling the other members of our spider web.”   
(fingernails scratching deep into back of hand, don't flinch)  
He watched Sherlock even more closely now.   
(doesn't know yet if he likes what he sees in my face, tries to figure out feelings for me, must notice the tension in my jaw, but also the revulsion?, time to get more active)  
“What do you want from me, Sebastian?”   
(trying not to sound too disgusted, keep voice neutral)

“What I want?” Sebastian chuckled, an insincere, cold sound. “I want you to stay right here for the next hour.”  
(his hand on my cheek again, revolting, don't flinch)  
“Then I want you to start looking for your precious doctor.”  
(thumb on my lips, revolting, don't flinch)  
“Search for him frantically while I'm enjoying my time with him, breaking him in every possible way.”  
(leaning closer now, his hand ruffling my hair, unpleasant, don't flinch, fight down fear, won't allow him to do that to John)

“And then I want you to find him, mere minutes after I took his life.” With that, Sebastian got up, pulling a little at his hair  
(unpleasant, stop it, that won't happen)  
“I want you to deduce every little thing I did to him from his corpse.” He leaned down and pressed his cheek against Sherlock's  
(his breath against my face again, revolting, don't flinch, won't find him too late),  
his hand on Sherlock's neck  
(unpleasant, stop, won't be too late)  
“I thought about killing you then, but maybe that will no longer be necessary.”  
(won't happen won't happen won't happen)

He placed a kiss on Sherlock's cheek, enjoyed the revulsion his action caused, and left.


	7. Legwork

When he woke up again, John was no longer tied to a table, but sitting on a chair, facing the unrendered wall of whatever building he was in.

His throat hurt, but otherwise he seemed to be fine. Listening closely, he failed to hear proof of another person inside the room. For a second, he wanted to let his guard down, but then thought better of it. He hadn’t had time to check the room for cameras, and he didn’t want to run any risk.

So he refrained from raising his head too high, concentrating on looking just a little more broken then he really felt. Nine months under Mycroft’s observation had given him a steady routine with that. Who would have thought that would come in handy one day?

John had no idea when Moran would show up again, so he used the time at hands for a general assessment of his situation. (1) Fact was, Moran intended to toy with him before killing him. That was good, because (2) fact was, Sherlock was looking for him. The longer Moran would toy, the longer Sherlock had to find him. So, why was Moran toying with him? Well, he was either (a) aiming at hurting Sherlock or (b) aiming at hurting John. 

(3) Fact was, Moran had been very close to Sherlock, lost that closeness due to a mistake he had made (given you could call killing more than five innocent people merely a “mistake”). (4) Fact was, John was as close to Sherlock now as Moran once had been. These facts made both (a) and (b) equally tempting goals. 

(a) would be achieved by first torturing and then killing John, showing Sherlock that he had not been able to save his friend, and (5) fact was, Sherlock couldn’t get over that. (b) would be achieved by first torturing John for a really long time before killing him. But (6) fact was, if Moran was aiming at real hurt, physical torture would not be enough. He would have to apply psychological warfare as well. What could he be using?

John’s musings were cut short when a door opened behind his back. He was already able to tell it was Moran simply by listening to the way he walked. Still, he made his back stiffen with anticipation. For a while, Moran said nothing, just went across the room several times, probably carrying something. “Hello?” John said with a certain uncertainty in his voice, signalling “I don’t have any idea who is doing what behind my back”. It seemed to work, for the steps came to an abrupt stop.

“John, awake already,” Moran sneered, coming closer. Again, John didn’t need brilliant acting abilities to appear scared. He still had no idea how stable this man was, and he did not ignore the fact that (7) one wrong word could trigger violence that would certainly lead to a brutal death long before the intended torturing would be finished.

John willed down his rapid heartbeat. He tried to turn his head wide enough to look at Moran, and found to his surprise that he had full movement there. Hopefully that surprise hadn’t shown on his face. But Moran was still wearing that smug expression of superiority, if he had noticed the surprise, he had probably misjudged it.

“Would have thought you’d be freed by now, wouldn’t you?” Moran teased, clearly aiming at making John fear Sherlock would not find him in time. With one swift movement he turned John's chair around. “How long have I been here?,” John asked, his throat still hurting, his voice harsh. “All in all? Six days. You’ve been out cold for four days after I got you, and another two after…” He didn’t end the sentence, softly touching John’s throat instead, maybe even caressing it. John shuddered. 

But six days? No way. After a two day blackout the pain in his throat would be a lot better. John bit his upper lip, hoping to appear thoughtful, but really checking his beard stubbles. No, not six days. Three at most, rather only two.

“Are you wondering why Sherlock hasn’t found you yet?” Now, what would be the right answer to that? “You’ve said you’re hiding me where he wouldn’t look …” “You are wrong, and you know it,” Moran said softly, and without any warning gave him a violent punch right into his face. John couldn’t help but cry out in pain. Damn. Then he realised something that was worse than the pain that was building up just below his left eye. It had been the right answer, but Moran was finding excuses to hurt him. Whatever he would do or say now, it would end painfully. 

John steeled himself for what was to come next. “We are talking about Sherlock Holmes,” Moran went on. “Tell me what he was doing when you left.” If this was all about inflicting pain on John, there was no reason to waste resources on inventing a good lie. “He was thinking about the case you set up for him.” Now Moran grinned at him, with a look on his face John had already come to hate. 

“Exactly, John. What do you think, how long has it taken him to realise you were gone? How much time has he already wasted by not noticing your absence?” John had been right, then. This was not just about physical pain. He willingly played along, frowning. “Well …” He let his voice trail off, knowing exactly what Moran was after. “Tell me John,” Moran interrupted, “how often does he talk to you when you are not around?” Good question. “Rather often” he admitted truthfully. “And why would he do that?” Now John held Moran’s gaze when he answered: “Because sometimes he’s completely oblivious of my presence.”

“Because he only cares for you when he remembers you're there.” Moran concluded, placing his hand on John's shoulder. John looked up at him with what he hoped was a display of faked realisation. Sherlock's temporary ignorance of his presence was not really a big revelation to him, but it seemed to sting with Moran, even after all those years. Good to know. “You don't think the day I abducted you was an exception, do you?” Moran continued to tease him. 

John opened his mouth to answer but before he was able to voice his thoughts, Moran had reached out and punched him again, more fiercely this time. But now John had seen it coming, and his painful cry was carefully controlled, its only purpose to make Moran feel in charge here. It nevertheless hurt, and he felt something hot trickle down his temple. He lowered his head and watched his own blood slowly seep into his shirt. Then he steeled himself, determined to keep the upper hand here, no matter how ugly it would get.

***

Mycroft Holmes despised legwork. He despised it nearly as much as surprises. But when his international surveillance network had detected John Watson's abduction, he had known that a journey to Italy had become indispensable.

The state of mind his brother was in when Mycroft arrived told him that his decision had indeed been justified. His eyes held a certain glint Mycroft had last seen years ago, usually followed by excessive drug abuse or worse. His movements were too fast, his voice quivered too strong. Yet what bothered Mycroft most was the fact that when he calmingly placed his hand on Sherlock's shoulder, his brother did not draw away. 

An unobtrusive search of the village brought up old, deeply hidden, bitter-sweet memories, but not a single hint of the doctor's whereabouts, and with every passing hour Sherlock's mood darkened significantly. Little was spoken between them, but when Mycroft suggested returning to the hotel Sherlock seemed to understand the reason. Sebastian wanted Sherlock to play with him, to follow his lead, and he surely couldn't resist teasing him with a hint should the search remain to be fruitless for long.

When the young receptionist who was obviously still dealing with the aftermath of childhood abuse and a violent fiancé told them that someone had left a flash drive for them, it had come as no surprise. Mycroft watched rather patiently while Sherlock reduced her to tears for not being able to tell them who left it, knowing there was no stopping him anyway, before he steered his little brother back into his room and started the wave file.

Being able to follow more than one train of thought, Mycroft easily divided his attention between the video clip and his brother. Sherlock however gave the clip his full attention, his eyes darting across the screen of his laptop feverishly. He seemed oblivious to how clearly his emotions were visible on his face.

The clip opened with a long shot of John Watson lying on a table, and Sebastian waiting patiently for him to regain consciousness. He looked straight into the camera twice, at the very beginning of filming and then again when John woke up.

“An orchestration” Sherlock murmured, a comment that touched Mycroft's heart quite unexpectedly. Of course it was, and Sherlock must have known that his brother was aware of it, too. The simplest deduction, in fact, and were the circumstances different Sherlock would have acknowledged his brother with mordant derision for mentioning something so obvious.

But these were special circumstances. This was about John Watson.

They watched on as Sebastian stepped closer to the waking doctor. “I know you're awake, John,” they heard him whisper, leaning on him just a little too close. Sherlock unknowingly flinched at that, revealing more about his reunion with Sebastian than what he had told his brother about it. Mycroft's glance wandered to the scratch on Sherlock's hand. 

The pain on Sherlock's face increased exponentially when Sebastian started to strangle the doctor, even though it was obvious that his intention was not to kill the man. 

The second clip showed John tied to a chair, his back to the camera. “Another place,” Sherlock noted, deeply lost in thought. So that was why they couldn't find him: Sebastian had him transferred from one building to another between the two takes. 

Mycroft allowed his eyes to close for a second, already constructing four different scenarios to stabilise his brother after John's hopefully not occurring death, none of them pleasant. When he opened them again, something had changed significantly. 

Sherlock was leaning closer to the screen of the laptop, eyeing the scene curiously. His lips were curled into a very slight smile. “Listen to this” he exclaimed, rewinding the clip a few seconds. “Hello?” John was asking insecurely, his back to Sebastian, who was just approaching him. 

When Mycroft failed to see what Sherlock was aiming at, he rewound again. “Hello?” And again. “Hello?” Then it dawned to him. “He his faking his insecurity.” At that, his little brother gave him a broader smile. “Yes, he is.”

The clip went on, and now it became obvious to Mycroft: John's surprise at not being properly tethered, John checking his facial hair to disprove the time frame Sebastian had given him, John trying to give exactly the answers Sebastian was expecting. Sherlock regaining his spirits, a proud smile on his lips.

But more became obvious to him: Sherlock compassionately watching Sebastian first punching John in the face, then treating him with increasing violence. Sebastian hitting John so hard that the chair keeled over. Sebastian kicking John's ribs, breaking more than one in the process. Sherlock's jaw clinching in pain while watching it. Sherlock's eyes widening when a fierce kick to the head made John lose consciousness again.

Mycroft Holmes despised legwork. But then he watched his little brother's face displaying every ounce of pain that John was hiding. His brother, who had always spent so much time on creating the image of an unaffiliated, self-centred sociopath. No matter how much Mycroft despised legwork, he understood that should they not manage to find John Watson in time, there was no scenario that would stabilise his brother ever again, and there was no other place he himself could be then than by Sherlock's side.


	8. Apparently He Would

When John came around, he found himself tied to the table again, but only one of his arms was fastened to something above his head like last time. The other was outstretched in a nearly perfect ninety degree angle. When he tried to move his fingers he realised they were all separately restrained. 

His whole body still hurt from the beating he had received before, and the strange position he found himself in made his heart race with fear, no matter how hard he tried to neglect that. He collected himself as good as possible, then opened his eyes to let the next round begin. 

“Oh, good, you're awake,” Moran greeted him cheerfully, a little hammer in his hands. It was not difficult to make the connection between the tool and his fingers, and John's stomach clenched with foreboding. He clung to the thought that his death would not be the goal of this part of the torture. He briefly wondered why Moran had fixed his right hand and not his left. He had either missed the fact that John was left-handed, or had different plans for the other hand later.

John allowed some of the fear he felt to show in his eyes, hoping to appear miserable. In fact, he felt better than before, besides the fear. If Moran was about to break John's each and every finger, that would at least buy Sherlock more time to find him. All John had to do was to endure the pain. He could do that, definitely. He only hoped he would be able to use his hand again once this was over.

“Don't worry, John, I'm not going to kill you now,” Moran explained with his abhorrently soft voice, patting John's chest, causing pain in the ribs that were most likely broken. “I'm not going to kill you against your wish, you know? But you will beg me to kill you soon, trust me.” Never. But John felt no need to share that thought with his tormentor. Instead he closed his eyes for a second, then stared at the hammer and pleaded: “Please don't!”

The smile that spread over Moran's face told him he had said the right thing. He cupped John's face almost protectively and answered: “Oh, I will, of course I will. But don't tell me this is the worst thing that's ever been done to you.” Would he now get to the point? The point that apparently included Sherlock? John swallowed hard, not caring that Moran saw it. 

“I mean,” Moran said while ruffling John's hair, “think of all the things Sherlock did to you.” Yes, here we go. John briefly wondered how well Moran was informed about their private life. He must have read the blog, but did he also have access to more confidential information? Let's hope he didn't.

“Think of what happened at Dartmoor.” John opened his mouth to answer, but closed it again, honestly not sure of what to say. Instead, he did as he had been told and thought back to the events at Grimpen and the Baskerville research facility. Now Moran would have to reveal where his information came from. With only the blog as a source he would simply mention the fact that Sherlock had drugged him on purpose. With access to more private information the fight they had had at the pub would surely be mentioned as well, the fight he hadn't written about.

Moran's voice now became cold and vicious. “He drugged you. On purpose.” He moved away from John's head, towards his side, and stood next to the outstretched hand, carelessly playing with the hammer. “With a drug he knew would cause sheer terror.” His voice grew louder now, his face displayed his anger. John knew exactly what would happen next, but forced himself not to look away. His whole body tensed in anticipation, and he felt sweat dripping down his face. The pain would be inevitable now.

“Even though you were suffering from PTSD, because he simply didn't CARE about you.” And with a dramatic timing, Moran brought the hammer down on John's little finger exactly at the end of his sentence. 

Anticipating the pain helped little to block it out. John felt it running up his entire arm like fire, his stomach revolting against the immense amount of pain hormones rushing though his body. He heard a cry, far away and high pitched and wondered if it had been his. He gasped for air when the pain subsided a little, leaving his finger throbbing. It felt like Moran had broken all three phalanges at once. 

Breathe, he told himself, breathing as steady as possible. God, it hurt. When the world around him stopped swirling, he looked at Moran again. “Sounds like you should break his fingers instead of mine.” Moran froze. Then he pressed his index finger on John's broken little finger. Damn.

“You disloyal scum,” Moran snapped at him angrily. “No wonder Sherlock never really trusted you.” A shiver went through John's body when he realised Moran had used past tense. So in his mind, John's life was already over. That was not good. He forced his concentration back to the blonde man looming over him. “Why do you think so?” Keep him talking, that might delay the next broken finger, if only for a few minutes.

“At the pool, for example.” Moran had gone back to ruffle John's hair, a motion that made him feel even sicker than the pain in his finger. “I can imagine the look in his eyes when you started talking, that split-second he thought you were Jim. Must have been the same look he had when he suspected me to be the murderer for the first time ...” His voice trailed off, his eyes lost in the past. 

“Let's face it, John” he went on after a moment. “If he'd trusted you the way you still trust him, he wouldn't have doubted you for a second. But he did, didn't he?” John closed his eyes just before the hammer came down on his ring finger. 

When the worst part of the pain was over, he weakly opened his eyes again. Moran was watching him closely, clearly enjoying way too much what he saw. John doubted that killing those people fifteen years ago had cost him quite an effort. He tried to catch his breath again, but this time Moran seemed unwilling to give him a break.

“Talking about the lack of trust, that must be the reason why he never told you Irene Adler is still alive.” John's eyes widened in surprise. But... “Oh, you didn't know. Funny.” He must have been lying. The woman was dead. Mycroft had told him. Unless... “Sherlock went to Karachi and saved her life. Why didn't he tell you?” 

John felt his control of the game slip through his fingers when Moran's revelation hit him by surprise. He needed to regain it at all cost. His mind was racing. What would he bring up for the last two fingers? What else might Sherlock be hiding from him? And he couldn't allow Moran to find out he was thinking about it. He needed to appear reacting, not acting. What had Moran's last question been?

He took a deep breath and said, with a wavering voice that was not as faked as he would have liked it to be: “Because he doesn't trust me enough.” Made a mental note to kick Sherlock's arse for not telling him. He knew he would never forget the sound his middle finger made when all three bones in it got smashed the same time.

This time the pain was even worse than the two times before. John felt his defence slowly going down. The sweat on his forehead was burning as it was running into his eyes, mixing with the tears that had started to build. His breathing was hollow. His vision was drastically dimmed. Don't slip into shock now, he ordered his body, with little success. He needed something to hold on to. Something...

But again, Moran was not waiting for him to recover. “But it wasn't only a matter of trust, was it?” he whispered into John's ear, softly wiping the sweat from his face. “He was also completely devastating you without even noticing.” Oh. John felt part of his confidence sweeping back. No matter what Moran would have up his sleeves, he knew for sure that Sherlock was not “devastating” him. 

Keeping his face desperate used up a lot of the little amount of strength John had left, but it was absolutely necessary not to let Moran see that he had chosen the wrong topic as the highlight of this session. “What ...” His voice broke involuntarily. This needed to be over soon. “What do you mean?” 

“Oh, I'm not talking about all those little hints that he didn't care. Like ruining your dates or using your things like they belonged to him or pushing you around.” Moran moved closer, stroking John's cheek with his thumb, causing another sting as he touched the bruises. “He never thought about you when he stood on that roof.” What was he implying? 

“He never even considered how it would affect you if you believed that he had jumped to his death in front of your eyes.” Don't let it show, don't let it show, John frantically thought. He was so close to giggling hysterically with delight that for a moment he was scared that he would get himself killed after all. He somehow managed to keep up his scared and nearly broken expression. Moran had no idea Sherlock had told him about the whole suicide plan before carrying it out.

“What pervert would do that to his friend?” Moran moved away from John's face again, towards his right hand. Only two fingers left ... “I've seen tapes of you on the pavement, trying to reach him ... Tell me, John, do you really still believe he considered you to be his friend?” Yes. “No.” John whispered, and allowed another wave of tiredness wash over him. As intended, Moran mistook it for grief. 

“No,” he echoed, bringing the hammer down on John's index finger. 

His vision was washed away completely this time, the pain filling every part of his body, every part of his mind. He felt like drowning in it, just barely able to stick his head up high enough. Not for the first time he wondered if those whimpering sounds came from his own mouth. He clung to consciousness by sheer will - power, but felt his grip on it weaken with every passing second.

Jesus, Sherlock, hurry up. Moran's face reappeared in front of him, his eyes darker than before, his expression determined. “And he did not only make you believe you'd seen him die. No, he had to call you.” Another caress of his already burning bruises. “I've listened to that conversation, John.” Sherlock had always suspected that their mobiles had been bugged that morning. “I've heard you trying to talk him out of it.” John felt his heart racing within his chest, not able to calm it down any longer.

Stay conscious, he told himself, only a few moments longer. “He didn't just leave you grieving for him, John, he also made you feel guilty because you thought you had failed to prevent it.” Hang on. “He left you broken, and didn't even care.” One more peak performance. John looked Moran straight in the eyes, and said bleakly: “I never understood how he could be so cruel.”

This time, when the hammer came down, he welcomed the pain, and finally allowed himself to succumb into the blissful darkness.

***

The third file was less disturbing than the other two, Mycroft thought. Yes, the amount of violence inflicted on Dr. Watson was even more severe this time, and he had already organised a bed for him at a clinic in Stockholm that was well known for its superior hand surgery, just in case they could save his life. But unlike last time, Sebastian showed control here, and so did John.

Yet, Sherlock responded to it worse. Interesting. 

They had found the second flash drive after another unsuccessful search of the village and the surrounding settlements. None of the people living here seemed to have noticed anything unusual, but at least two of them had been lying. One of them, the owner of a little wine restaurant they had frequented the other night, had shown remorse and a more than obvious attraction to Sherlock, so Mycroft was almost sure that another visit to her place tonight would finally reveal something.

Meanwhile, all they could do was watching Sebastian skilfully breaking every bone in the doctor's hand while trying to break his spirit by dwelling upon Sherlock's very nature. An undertaking doomed to fail, apparently, but Sebastian seemed to be unaware of that. Mycroft looked at his little brother once more, wondering if he also knew that nothing in the world could take John's loyalty away from him. He made a mental note to bring it up sometime later if necessary.

Mycroft watched Sebastian's torture techniques with a certain professional interest. His timing was admirable, but the choice of topics for the psychological part of it was dilettantish. At least if the young man was only aiming at breaking John. The effect his words had on Sherlock were a completely different matter.

Mentioning the events at Grimpen, for example. It was clear from John's initial reaction that he had already forgiven Sherlock. Why he had chosen to do so was a mystery to Mycroft. That man was a saint when it came to Sherlock, that much was clear. Anyway, John soldiered on dutifully, only pretending to be hurt by the memories. 

Why didn't Sherlock see that? His little brother's face was extremely open again, displaying fear and remorse and compassion all at once. And when they heard John teasing Sebastian: “Sounds like you should break his fingers instead of mine,” it was painfully obvious that Sherlock silently agreed with him.

Sherlock's whole body tensed at the mentioning of the pool incident. So he had believed John to be Moriarty, if only for a second? A little detail that none of them had felt necessary to share with Mycroft until now, not even Moriarty. Charming.

When Sebastian told him about Adler, Mycroft couldn't help but pause the file. “What does he mean, Sherlock?” he asked, not able to keep curiosity and anger out of his voice. “When have you been to Karachi?” His brother turned to him fiercely: “Doesn’t matter. Resume.” “It doesn't matter? Sherlock, look at John. Why didn't you tell him? He had everything under control, but your thoughtless actions took that away from him.”

Well, maybe Sherlock had reached that conclusion by himself already. Instead of stubbornly defending his actions, he seemed to slump onto his chair, staring at the screen, unconsciously pressing his fingernails into the wound on his hand. “I know that, Mycroft,” he answered flatly. “Now. Resume. The clip.”

It became apparent to both of them that John's tolerance to the physical pain was deteriorating, a disturbing yet to be expected sight. And that was exactly the moment Sebastian ruined it. “He was also completely devastating you without even noticing.” he said to the doctor, and only a skilful observer like Mycroft himself would have been able to notice the subtle change in John's facial expression. Did Sherlock notice it as well?

Mycroft paused the file again. “You know that it is not true,” he stated, watching his brother closely. “Yes” Sherlock lied. Had he been a less controlled person, Mycroft would have rolled his eyes. “Observe,” he said, gesturing at John's face, relaying the scene frame by frame. “Notice how his lips relax and his eyebrows rise. He had been facing problems before, but now he's gaining ground again.” And when Sherlock still didn't react properly, he emphasised again: “Because what Sebastian says is not true.”

When he leaned forward to resume the file at normal speed, Mycroft placed his hand on Sherlock's shoulder once more. He could have sworn his brother was leaning against it, but maybe it was only an inappropriate whiff of wishful thinking.

Sebastian's next mistake couldn't go unnoticed, not even in Sherlock's somewhat disturbed state of mind. “He never even considered how it would affect you if you believed that he had jumped to his death in front of your eyes.” they heard him say. “Idiot” Sherlock murmured softly, and Mycroft nearly smiled. 

Then he noticed Sherlock's pupils dilating with fear when it became obvious to him that John needed to bring up an enormous amount of control to prevent himself from showing Sebastian that he was thinking exactly what Sherlock had just said. “Don't show it,” he whispered under his breath, unaware of doing that. 

This time, when John pretended to have lost his faith in Sherlock's friendship, Mycroft watched his brother nod in agreement and support. This must be how simpler people reacted to watching soccer games, he mused.

It was kind of a shame to watch Sebastian ruining the entire torture simply because he had not known that John had been fully aware of Sherlock's plans. “He didn't just leave you grieving for him, John, he also made you feel guilty because you thought you had failed to prevent it.” Mycroft heard him hiss, and the good doctor obediently looked completely devastated. Sherlock's eyes started to gleam with pride.

“He left you broken, and didn't even care” Sebastian went on, unable to distinguish John's exhaustion and physical pain from his non-existing brokenness. Sherlock nearly smiled, and his facial expression returned to his regular arrogance when John lied straight-faced: “I never understood how he could be so cruel.”

Then, of course, when John's last finger was broken and his mind finally gave in to the pain and his body went limp, every gleam was wiped away from Sherlock's face again. He continued to stare at the screen after the clip was over, deeply lost in thought. When he finally turned around to face Mycroft again, he looked years older than he had only two weeks before. “I am going to kill him” he announced calmly, and Mycroft nodded. Apparently he would.


	9. The Winner Takes It All

This time John found himself lying on the floor, handcuffed and with tied legs, but not tethered. He felt depleted and empty and cold. The adrenaline that had kept him going during the last torturing session was used up completely, replaced by a throbbing pain that seemed to come from every single muscle in his body.

For a while he just lay like that, listening for signs of Moran's presence. When he couldn't make out any, he continued to lie still anyway, trying to get some rest. Even opening his eyes seemed to require an unreasonable amount of strength. The checking of his stubble came almost automatically. Must be four days now. Sherlock, where are you?

When he finally opened his eyes, he got an impression of the room he was in now. It seemed to be old, with stone walls and sandy clay instead of a floor. It was shady without the lights on. Some cellar then. Something caught his eyes, a little red dot of light somewhere underneath the ceiling. A camera. No wonder Moran always appeared as soon as John regained consciousness.

He should be here any minute then, surely having noticed his captive's subtle movement. John nearly sighed. He knew he needed to be more alert than he was now, but it was so incredibly exhausting. Remembering his special training, he knew that this was the most dangerous part of any hostage situation – the aftermath of an adrenaline surge that was so vast that there was simply no energy left afterwards. But he needed to be at full attention soon, or he would die here after all.

The door on the other side of the room opened, and the lights were turned on. Nearly blinded, John closed his eyes again, only for a moment. Staying like that was so tempting. But when the steps came closer, he opened his eyes again, and, as always, soldiered on. 

There was something in Moran's face he hadn't seen there before. The tall man placed something on a nearby table and approached him quickly. “You sure took your time to wake up, John,” he tutted, pulling the empty chair closer. Was he in some kind of a hurry? That could only mean that Sherlock was on his heels. Finally.

He placed himself in front of John, looking down on him, looming over him. One thing that must have connected Sherlock to him had surely been their marked preference for dramatic poses. Well, it wasn't as if John hadn't learnt anything from living with Sherlock, too. He closed his eyes again, sighing, hoping to appear even more tired and hopeless than he felt.

Again, Moran seemed to buy it. “It will soon be over, John” he promised. When he was ruthlessly yanked onto the chair, his glance fell on the object Moran had placed on the table: a gun. Moran might be running out of time, but he had also believed John's performance as Sherlock's deeply disappointed friend/more than friend. 

So this would be their endgame. 

John didn't struggle when he was tied to the chair, didn't try to break free at the crucial point where Moran had to loosen the hand-cuffs in order to tie John's arms to the chair, didn't take his chance to kick Moran right in the face when his legs were free for a moment before they, too, were tied to the chair. He knew he wouldn't make it out of this room by physical force.

He had a plan, though, and if it worked out the way he thought, if Moran had felt the way John imagined ... First, he needed to find that out. The rest would follow nearly automatically, especially because Moran was sure now that John had abandoned the idea of being an important part of Sherlock's life.

If John was wrong, at least there would not be too much time left to regret it.

“He still hasn't found you, after ten days” Moran stated matter-of-factly, staring down at John. “Do you really still think he's seriously looking for you?” Of course. But John slowly raised his head, then let it drop with exhaustion. “No,” he whispered. “That hurts, doesn't it?” Moran went on, smiling coldly. John looked at the gun now, openly, not flinching. Allowed Moran to meet his hopeless gaze.

“ You know, he's not even in Italy any longer. Left the country when he lost interest in us.” Us? That sounded good. Carefully, very carefully, John took command. “Do you know what hurt the most?” he asked his captor, his voice sounding small even in his own ears. Moran looked at him, mildly surprised. “What?” He had taken the bait. Good. “I really thought ...” He stopped in mid-sentence, one of his best performances. Swallowed, bit his lips, blinked. “I really thought he ... he loved me.” 

Shook his head in mock disbelief. Peered secretly at Moran's expression. Yes, there it was, just for a second. “How could I believe that? I mean ...” Another blink, another swallow. “... to think that someone like him could fall for someone like ... like me ...” He sighed deeply, stared into empty space for a second. Watched Moran's face from the corner of his eyes. Yes, it was definitely there. Moran knew exactly what John was only talking about. He had felt it himself. Probably still did.

“But there were so many signs ...” John went on, as if talking to himself. Don't overact now, he told himself. Don't hasten anything. He was silent for a while, gave Moran time to think about his own feelings. Let him remember the bitter sting of rejection. It still hurt, didn't it?

“I told myself not to give in to the feeling,” he continued then, looking as sad as possible. “But he was ... it was impossible not to fall for him. Do you know what I mean?” He held his breath for a second. Had this approach been too direct? But Moran bought it, took the bait again, didn't notice he was losing ground. “Yes, I know,” he admitted. Idiot!

“But there were so many little things, so many ...” John let his voice trail off again. Let's check the first one out. “His embraces ...” Well, it had been only the one so far, a few days ago in Madrid, but that's what he had learnt from being surrounded by Holmes' for so long: The best way to hide a lie was to wrap it up in truth. “I mean, they always felt so ...” He never finished the sentence, looking at Moran instead, trying to appear heart-broken. Moran's expression was easy to read. He had no idea how the embraces felt because he had never been embraced by Sherlock Holmes. Got you there.

John sighed loud and clear, drawing Moran's attention back to the present. Wondered how Moran could have missed the fact that John was in complete control of their talk now. Well, army training seemed to beat villainy. Still, he wouldn't mind Sherlock appearing any time soon, for fatigue and pain were taking their toll after all. 

“I always pretended to be annoyed when he disturbed my dates, you know?” John carried on, fighting down a completely unwanted wave of nausea. Yes, this needed to be over soon. Fortunately it made him look only more wretched. “But in reality I've always hoped he just got into their way to have me completely for himself.” A statement that held a certain, if only small amount of truth. John was convinced that Sherlock had ruined a good deal of his dates to have John for himself, but only because he demanded John's help with catching a criminal, getting rid of Mycroft or fetching his mobile out of his pocket.

But something in Moran's face told him that this was the wrong topic to mention. Damn, what could he probably ... “He never wanted you, John. He just needed your work power or your time or just a dummy to talk to. Just like he did with me.” Yeah, right, so that had been too obvious. “I know by now” John admitted. Think of something better.

He let his head drop a little, which caused another wave of dizziness. Looked at the gun again, just to buy some time. Then it came to his mind. “I mean ...” he started, closing his eyes for a moment, then looked at some spot next to Moran's face. “I know that everything Sherlock does is selfish and egocentric, but sometimes ...” He saw agreement in Moran's face. “... sometimes he did things ...” 

The dizziness got worse, he honestly needed to take a break. “Unbearable, egoistic things” Moran chimed in, probably misreading John's pause, not noticing how he was helping his captive here. “Nice things” John corrected, avoiding Moran's glance now. Eyes down, like he had done a century ago, back at the hospital. “Like when he pretended to have a lead we needed to follow, chasing a cab, only to make me forget my psychosomatic limp.” 

That had indeed been surprisingly unselfish, John thought, and a little warm feeling spread inside of him. Don't show it. Moran shook his head: “No, John, all he wanted was a sidekick without handicap. That's the only reason he did that.” Then the other man's expression became somewhat painful for a second. So he had realised by himself how he had just admitted that Sherlock wanted John, for whatever reason. 

John remained silent again, not only to let Moran consider how Sherlock never wanted him, at least not the way Moran wanted to be wanted. It was also because John felt his own body start trembling a little. He was running out of strength, and very fast as well. If he lost consciousness now there would be another round of this game once he awoke again, and he knew that he would not be strong enough to win it then. No, he needed to finish it now, and soon.

“He stole an ashtray for me, once,” he told Moran when he felt that enough time had passed. “At Buckingham Palace. Only to make me laugh.” And the most wonderful thing was that it wasn't a lie at all. He looked at his captor once more. Now it was about time ... He let a little fond smile spread across his face. It was genuine, no need to pretend here.

He noticed how Moran had paled. So he ventured on: “I had forgotten how good it felt to laugh before I met Sherlock.” Another truth. “But you know the feeling: being with him is like your life has suddenly changed from black and white to colours.” Yes, you know the feeling. And you miss it. “I never giggled that much as when I was with him.” He cast another glance at Moran. So you never giggled together? Good to know.

The pain on Moran's face was obvious now. He seemed to follow exactly where John was leading him: to realise that what John and Sherlock were having was so much more than anything he ever had. A tear would be good now. Unable to cry on command, John tried to clench his broken fingers. Pain shot through him, making his eyes wet. Good. 

“All those times he found excuses to touch me ...” John ventured on with another half-lie, fascinated by watching Moran's expression crumble more and more. Ignored the fact that he could no longer keep his own legs from trembling. Not much longer now. But he was nearly there anyway.

He kept silent for a while, giving Moran a chance to react to all he had heard so far. Clenched his broken fingers once more. Produced a single tear running down his bruised cheeks. And once more, Moran didn't get the fact that he was only helping John with his words: “Sherlock isn't capable of love, John. I know that. I know it.” Because if you admit that he is, you will also have to admit that he just didn't love you. “If he were, he wouldn't have made you believe he killed himself in front of your eyes.”

Thanks for the prompt. “He didn't,” John said quietly, with an absent voice, as if not aiming at pulling the rug out from under Moran. “What?” Now John looked up at Moran, holding his gaze steadily, only for a few seconds. “He told me all about his plan after we returned from Dartmoor. The night the camera in my room was broken.” That brought him a sharp look from his captor. So Sherlock had been right, at least one of the unidentified cameras belonged to Moran.

“He told me all about it against Mycroft's wish.” Truth. “Said it would break his heart if he would lose my love while saving my life.” Lie. “No” Moran said. So John explained: “You took hold of my mobile, didn't you? Checked out all those texts Mary Morstan sent me? Don't tell me you weren't able to realise they were sent by Sherlock.” Truth. “You must have noticed the call 'she' gave me just after the killer you sent to Madrid had failed.” A shot in the dark. A good one, judging by the expression on Moran's face. 

The pain and the exhaustion were completely forgotten now, all John concentrated on was dealing Moran the final blow. Only three more steps ... “Anyway, if he really loved me, he would have found me after ten days, right?” Only that you know that it has not been that long, and you surely also know he is looking for me right now. Why else would you've been in such a hurry when you came in? So this is not an argument against him loving me, and you know it ...

Again, John stared at the ground for a while, looking broken and hopeless, while Moran was surely trying to argue down the huge pile of alleged proofs. Two more blows, and this should be over. He forced another tear by moving his fingers. “I know I shouldn't have hoped for his love, but ...” John bit his lips thoughtfully, calculating. “I think it was the violin that convinced me.” 

“The violin?” Moran couldn't help but ask, his voice clearly shaken. He no longer tried to show any composure. John needed to concentrate to avoid grinning now. He knew he was about to win this game. 

“In the beginning I thought it was coincidental” he explained, again giving his voice this faraway sound, as if talking to himself. “Whenever I had a nightmare, I would wake up to the tunes of Tchaikovsky.” Truth. “But it wasn't coincidental. He was able to predict if I would have a nightmare or not by deducing I don't know what.” Truth. “And when he saw the hints, he would stay awake for me and start playing at just the right moment.” Truth. “I always thought that there was not a more selfless way to show me his love.” Lie. One that Moran bought.

“But I'm sure he's done the same for you, hasn't he?” Lie. Moran was shaking. Everything he had clung to for decades in his twisted, psychotic mind was tumbling to dust. 

And now, the final blow. “You know, there is only one thing that keeps me from cracking completely. Do you know what it is?” One last dramatic pause. One last tear. Moran's eyes were wide with horror now. Did he see it coming? Yes, most likely, and he didn't stop John from saying it. He knew he was lost. 

John looked Moran directly in the eye now, all signs of weakness and doubt and being broken replaced by determined conviction: “I always understood that he wanted to become a good man. And I know that he relied on me to be his conscience. No matter how long we would have lived together, I would have never been allowed so close to his heart had I been a lesser man.” Truth. He saw Moran's eyes losing their focus. “He couldn't have loved me had I been … I don't know … say, a cold blooded serial killer ...” 

Moran reached for his gun.

***

Their deduction about the owner of the wine restaurant had been correct  
(only Mycroft's deduction really, but no need to admit that, he's arrogant enough without me praising him)  
and finally they were on a hot trail.  
(won't find him too late, must be in time, won't find him mere minutes after Seb … no, won't allow that to happen, need to stop imagining John on a cold floor, eyes empty like Aurora Isleña's, stop that, his blood spilled around him, stop that, body broken, Seb next to him, smiling, don't think about it, John never smiling at me again, being gone for ever STOP THAT)

They had searched the empty farmhouse before  
(opposite of Adigi's home, Seb shot him from the first floor of this building, first place I've looked on my own, returned here again with Mycroft the next day, clever of him to bring John here now, big building with large cellar and two rear buildings, plenty of hiding places, need to hurry up)  
and had returned now to do so once more. They were sweeping the underground complex  
(endless amount of passages connecting the main house to both of the rear buildings, footprint size 9 Louis Vuitton means we found new trace of Seb's presence in hall, must be close, have to be close, being too late is unacceptable, won't lose John now, he's not dead, eyes not empty, body not limp, soul not gone, will find John in ...)

when a brutal gunshot burst the silence.  
(NO!   
no no no   
Seb holding a gun against John's head, firing, John instantly slumping to the ground, like a puppet without strings, dead before he touches the ground, blood running out of the hole in his head, eyes wide open in surprise, gone.  
Seb firing at John from over the room, hitting his heart, John's knees buckling, he slowly descends to the ground, reaching for the wound with his hands, presses them against the unstoppable flood, eyes wide in terror and pain, lying on the cold floor, dying slowly enough to wonder why I haven't rescued him, body shutting down, gone.  
Seb firing at John from over the room, hitting his lung, John trying to breathe, world spinning around him, blood filling his lungs, drowning him, desperate breaths jolting his body, shaking with horror and pain, still fighting for his life even though he knows he is lost, arms reaching out with no aim, desperately trying to grasp someone who isn't there, dying slowly enough to wonder why I haven't rescued him, closes his eyes, gone.)

Sherlock broke into a fierce run,   
(no oh no have been too slow, have thought too slowly, should have prevented it should have found him earlier shouldn't have called him from Madrid should have noticed the bath-room window should have ...)  
following the echo of the shot, leaving Mycroft behind,   
(will kill him will take his life with my own hands will make it slow and painful will watch his blood draining out of his dying body )  
turned around one more corner   
(Seb's face close to mine, hands around his throat, pressing, he's struggling but can't break free, his eyes filled with panic, his hands hitting my body, but pain doesn't matter, pressing stronger, so close I can feel his body shaking, fighting for his life but losing, tries to speak terrible sound, arms getting weaker, eyes losing focus, lips blue, arms and legs twitching falling to the ground, body slacking underneath mine, eyes dead, gone  
Seb falling to the ground, poisoned, eyes wide in pain, body shaking with spasms, white foam running out of his open mouth, tries to breathe in vain, body helpless on the floor, barely twitching now, standing above him, watching him dying, his hands reaching out for me, silently begging for help, watching the light leaving his eyes slowly, slowly, the sound of his painful final breaths, a gargling, then silence, gone  
Seb kneeling on the ground, gun against Seb's head, Seb begging for mercy, crying in fear, shaking, praying for forgiveness, me waiting, stretching that moment, enjoying the power over his life, ignoring his pleas, waiting to hurt him further, waiting to make him feel the terror John has felt, waiting to make him realise what he had done, then pulling the trigger, hitting the head, Seb's body collapsing against mine, holding him close, feeling his final spasms, his blood soaking my clothes, holding him until his body is cold, then throwing him away like garbage)  
and saw -  
(Oh!)  
(…)  
(…)

Then his brain slowly, slowly took in the entirely unexpected scene.  
(Seb, lying on the floor, dead, gun besides his head, blood, empty eyes, traces of tears? And John sitting on a chair, alive, grinning, grinning!!, no new wounds visible, smug grin, never thought he could actually look that smug, still tied to the chair, how did he ...)

Their eyes locked  
(alive)  
and John's expression changed from smugness to relief.  
(but not surprise, knew I would come, how could he have been so sure?)  
“Sherlock” he said  
(voice harsh, exhausted, will succumb to fatigue and pain within the next six minutes but he's alive)  
“I hope you don't mind that I've started saving my life while waiting for you. Oh, hello Mycroft! Would one of you mind freeing me from this chair?”

When Mycroft approached John to do so,  
(took in the scene faster than me, he will dwell upon that endlessly in the future, John's alive!!)  
Sherlock finally moved towards them, too. John rose from the chair  
(completely miscalculating the amount of strength he has left, won't be able to stand on his own for more than five seconds, need to move closer)  
and clumsily reeled directly into Sherlock's arms.  
(need to place left arm here in order not to hurt broken ribs more than necessary, right arm here to stabilise body, careful with broken hand, kneel down slowly so John is nearly lying, keep his upper body and head slightly upright to prevent blood pressure from crashing, turn him around a little so I can see his face, support his head with my chest, check pulse, too fast due to shock, need to keep him warm)

In the background he heard Mycroft talking to someone on his mobile  
(medical team, orders helicopter for transport, Stockholm or Rotterdam)  
but didn't take his eyes off John, their gazes locked again.  
(fighting to keep his eyes open, losing focus again and again, should get rest, need to tell him, don't want him to close eyes just yet, selfish, he's alive, his left hand clinging to my shirt, fist clenched, holding on)

“I knew you would come,” John mumbled, and Sherlock just nodded.  
(strange lump in my throat, never mind, he knows what I want to say anyway and ... what is that? Mycroft's hand on my shoulder AGAIN, need to start reacting in a harsh way to that soon or he will do it again and again. Need to stop liking it)

As if reading his mind, John smiled a little, then sobered and looked at his right hand that was carefully placed on his belly.  
(scared, fully understanding the consequences of the physical torture he had faced, still trying to look not scared, is he trying to reassure me? Idiot)  
“You will be taken to Stockholm” Mycroft answered the unspoken question, “I've already arranged for the best hand-surgeon I know to take care of you.”

John nodded  
(close to losing consciousness any moment now, eyelids fluttering, face pale, left hand slowly letting go of the shirt, descending onto his chest, should stop holding on now)  
and looked at Sherlock again.  
(needs to relax now, tired, deserves rest)  
He tried to say something   
(needs rest)  
and Sherlock finally regained his voice.

“John Watson” he said, not able to prevent the happiness from seeping into his voice, “apparently you have already talked one man into suicide. I'd recommend that you shut up now.”  
(grins, as always, understands exactly how it was meant, his eyes finally closing, slowly succumbing to unconsciousness, head resting heavy against chest, body losing tension, head becoming heavier and heavier, facial muscles relax, breathing becomes calmer, body completely slack now, but he's alive and warm and breathing and alive)

Only when the paramedics approached him to take John to the helicopter did Sherlock realise he'd been comfortingly rocking his friend ever since he had passed out.


	10. The Quiet After The Storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had wanted to write a longer epilogue, but then Sherlock said something and John said something, and then all was said.  
> Thank you all for reading! It was a tremendous fun to write this one, and I've been so sad when I realized that it's finished. But then, the next one is already planned...

John woke up in the middle of the night, pulled out of his slumber by the pleasantly familiar traffic noises of Baker Street. He needed a moment to remember he was finally home, had gone to sleep in his own bed in his own room a few hours ago. 

He felt deep gratitude towards Dr. Fredricksson and his team, but nevertheless he had spent the last days in Stockholm longing for home. His right hand was still far from being all right again, but he had grown sick of watching Sherlock's successful attempt to purge his name and uncover the truth about Moriarty on telly. Even hearing about it from Sherlock himself didn't still his restlessness.

Sherlock had spent a surprisingly high amount of time with John in hospital, coming from London four or five times a week, usually by a helicopter Mycroft had organised using God knows which sources.

He had kept a jealous watch on John's treatment, reducing more than one doctor or nurse to tears for not being competent enough or foreseeing enough or not being nice enough towards John. His way of taking care, John assumed, and also his way of making up for everything he still felt guilty about.

Now John had finally been sent home again, with heavy instructions concerning his hand and his general welfare, and was happy simply lying in his own bed, listening to the familiar noise from outside. 

After a while, he realised that there was another sound mixing into the city's background music. Voices, one of them his own. Sleepily he went down the stairs and found Sherlock still sitting in the living room, John's notebook on his lap. He was frowning and so lost in thought that he didn't hear John approaching him. 

“If he were, he wouldn't have made you believe he killed himself in front of your eyes” he heard a familiar voice that made the hairs on his arm rise. Sherlock was still unaware of his presence, concentrating so hard John could almost hear the gears in his head working.

“Why are you watching that again?” he asked softly, sitting down next to his friend who looked a little like a boy caught stealing sweets. Several expressions flickered across his face in the seconds before he looked up from the screen.

“I ...” Sherlock seemed to ponder several answers before he went on: “... need to deduce something.” John glanced at the screen as well. He saw himself, tied to that dreadful chair, his face a mess, swollen and pale and sweaty and bruised. And he saw Sebastian Moran, tall and handsome, but his face equally pale and sweaty. 

He couldn't help but grin smugly once more: ”I was good, wasn't I?” “You were brilliant, Captain,” Sherlock answered, not a hint of mocking in his voice. They sat comfortably next to each other for a while, then Sherlock suddenly put the laptop down and turned towards John. “That reminds me ...” he said and stretched out his left hand for John to take. “Thank you,” he said, solemnly shaking John's unhurt hand.

“You're welcome” John answered, and after a while he asked curiously: “What for?” This earned him the first “John, really?”-glance in a long time: “For saving your life.” 

Oh. John felt like he should make a funny remark, like “It wasn't entirely altruistic”, but for some reason he didn't quite trust his voice right now. Instead, he just smiled and watched Sherlock's face light up as well, wondering a little at how warm it made him feel inside.

They continued sitting next to each other for a while, both happy about being home, both lost in thought, before Sherlock went on: “Your line of argument has been very … convincing.” John smiled at him. “Yes, good thing that someone once taught me that the right balance of truth and lies is vital to placing ideas in people's heads.” 

“And your acting abilities have clearly benefited from the heavy surveillance you've been under after my fall.” Now John began to understand what was going on in Sherlock's funny mind. “Good thing you have no difficulty telling when I was lying and when not,” he prompted, watching Sherlock from the corner of his eyes. “Of course” the consulting detective lied. Bugger!

They became quiet again, and in spite of the rather serious topic John felt his eyes becoming really reluctant to stay open. His thoughts trailed off to the wonderful landscape of Umbria he didn't really had a chance to enjoy, and he had almost fallen asleep when Sherlock suddenly said: “You knew he loved me.” 

John blinked, trying to keep up with the twists of Sherlock's vulnerable mind. “Well, yes, I ...” he started, but Sherlock cut in almost instantly: “I mean, I still fail to understand how someone can love me. I know some people regard me as attractive, I've been using that regularly, but love me? How could you have known something as absurd as that?”

John looked at his friend for a while. Several answers presented themselves to him only to be dismissed instantly. Because you are so brilliant. Because you do have an enormously big heart, no matter how hard you try to conceal it. Because you look so breathtaking when you are honestly shy. Because you do play the violin for me at night.

How could he put all that in words without ...

Sherlock frowned, obviously deducing God knows what from John's face. Then all of a sudden he smiled, one of those rare happy smiles that always lit up John's mood. “I see,” he stated, and held John's gaze for a heartbeat. And another. And another. And another. “You see” John repeated, and ignored the blush he felt rising in his cheeks, for some strange reason not wanting to look away either. Then he smiled, too. 

They sat like that for a little eternity, shifting their talk to lighter topics. When John slowly fell asleep listening to Sherlock detailing on what exactly he had done in Tibet three months ago, he didn't mind at all that his head dropped softly onto Sherlock's shoulder.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, commenting and / or leaving kudos.
> 
> This would not have been possible without my wonderful betas Bev and GoSherlocked who spent their time roughing out all my mistakes. I specially praise Susi for realising this would be pre-slash when I was still thinking it would be friendship only!
> 
>  
> 
> Find me on tumblr: http://schmiezi.tumblr.com/


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